The Elder Scrolls: Morrowind
by The Cush
Summary: Towards the end of the Third Era of Tamriel, a stranger born under a certain sign to uncertain parents was taken from the prisons of the Imperial City, without explaination, and sent to the Imperial province of Morrowind, unaware of his destiny...
1. Glossary

Glossary  
  
This glossary is offered as a reference for those who are unfamiliar with the game and its contents. Those who are familiar and take exception with the definitions and descriptions offered herein are free to nitpick at their leisure.  
  
Ahemmusa - one of the four Ashlander tribes in Vvardenfell, their main encampment located along the coast in the northern part of the Grazelands  
  
Akavir - A kingdom outside the Empire of Tamriel, noted for its strong magical traditions  
  
alit - a large, bipedal, predatory reptile native to Vvardenfell, characterized by its narrow and pronounced lower jaw  
  
Alchemy - the branch of magical study that deals with the identification of magical properties inherent in plants, animal parts, and minerals, and the useful combination of such components into reagents, poisons, and potions for consumption to obtain desired effects  
  
Ald'Ruhn - district capital for House Redoran; a large town set in the foothills near Red Mountain  
  
Almalexia - one of the three god-kings of Morrowind; a different name for the mainland capital city of Mournhold  
  
Almsivi - another term for the three god-kings of Morrowind  
  
Alteration - the branch of magical study that deals with changing the properties inherent in objects and the abilities of creatures. Such spells commonly involve levitation, water breathing, or magical shielding.  
  
Altmer - Elvish name for the High Elves (used in singular and plural form), characterized by their golden skill, propensity for magic, and haughty attitude towards all other races  
  
Anticipations, the - a term used by the Tribunal Temple of Morrowind to denote the "good" Daedric gods Azura, Boethiah, and Mephala  
  
Argonian - one of the "beast races" of Tamriel, a bipedal reptilian race from the country of Argonia, characterized by their sharp claws and their great speed  
  
Ascadian Isles - the southern central region of Vvardenfell, dominated by the provincial capital of Ebonheart and the holy city of Vivec, stretching west towards the Bitter Coast and east towards Azura's Coast  
  
ash ghoul - a creature found in deep cave and ruins located in the Ashlands  
  
ash vampires - a sapient being, long thought extinct, once found in the immediate vicinity of Red Mountain  
  
Ashlander - common appellation given to nomadic tribes of Dunmer on the island of Vvardenfell  
  
Ashlands - the central region of Vvardenfell surrounding the cone of Red Mountain, stretching north to the Sheogorad region and south to the Ascadian Isles region  
  
ashkhan - the leader or headman of an Ashlander camp  
  
atronach - a name given to certain elemental Daedric constructs; a golem  
  
Azura - a Daedric goddess, commonly associated with magic and mystery, once considered a patron goddess of the Dunmer  
  
Azura's Coast - the southeastern coastline of Vvardenfell, stretching from the island town of Tel Branora north to Zafirabel Bay  
  
Balmora - district capital for House Hlaalu; a large town along the Odai River, west by northwest of Ebonheart and Vivec  
  
Bitter Coast - the region of Vvardenfell's western coast stretching from the town of Seyda Neen north to Khartag Point  
  
bittergreen - a plant native to Morrowind, occasionally used as either a curative tea or a deadly poison  
  
Black Hands - another name for the Daedric goddess Mephala  
  
Boethiah - a Daedric god, commonly associated with murder, assassination, treason, and internal strife  
  
bonelord - an undead guardian of Dunmer ancestral tombs, noted for their multiple arms and powerful magical abilities  
  
bonemold - a style of medium weight armor made from the skeletal remains of various animals laminated together with a resin harvested from shalk beetles  
  
bonewalker - an undead guardian of Dunmer ancestral tombs, noted for their great strength and their plague-bearing nature  
  
Bosmer - Elvish name for the Wood Elves (singular and plural), characterized by their short stature, wide expressive eyes, and uncanny marksmanship  
  
Breton - a race of Men from the country of High Rock, characterized by their light skin and strong magical talents  
  
Buoyant Armiger - a holy warrior in the direct service of the god-king Vivec  
  
Camonna Tong - a criminal syndicate comparable to the Thieves Guild found elsewhere in the Empire. The Camonna Tong is active (albeit covertly) in the political manuevers of Morrowind  
  
canton - a large multi-tiered edifice containing apartments, shops, sewers, and entertainment; the dominant structural form in Vivec  
  
Chimer - an archaic name for the Dunmer  
  
chitin - a material harvested from the shells of various insectoid species in Morrowind, used to make lightweight weapons and light flexible armors  
  
clannfear - a small vicious Daedra, characterized by its green lizard-like skin and its large bony collar fringe  
  
cliff racer - a large flying reptile with a broad wingspan and a large dorsal sail  
  
comberry - a small red fruit from the comberry bush, used in the distillation of local liquors  
  
Conjuration - the branch of magical study that involves the summoning of magical creatures, binding certain Daedric spirits into weaponry, as well as the control or influence of humanoids and animals.  
  
corprus - an incurable disease currently found only in Vvardenfell, its symptoms include physical deformities and degredation of mental faculties to the point of insanity  
  
Cyrodiil - the main region of the Tamrielic Empire; another name for the race of Men who founded the Empire  
  
Cyrodiilic brandy - a distilled liquor that refreshes the drinker without incapacitation  
  
Cyrodiilic whiskey - a distilled liquor that refreshes and invigorates the drinker without incapacitation, increasing the drinker's strength temporarily  
  
Daedra - a collective name for a group of supernatural creatures ranging in strength and importance from minor beings to deities; a singular supernatural being  
  
Daedric - relating to the Daedra, applying to shrines that are dedicated to Daedra Lords as well as weapons and armor crafted by a Daedra  
  
daedroth - a powerful Daedra with a humanoid body and a crocodilian head, acts as a servant of the Daedric god Molag Bal, notable for its magical specialization in poisonous and electrical attacks  
  
Dagoth Ur - according to legend, the enemy of the Tribunal and all Dunmer, reputedly laired inside the crater of Red Mountain  
  
Dark Brotherhood - a splinter faction of the Morag Tong assassins guild, long condemned and vilified by the Empire and the Dunmer in particular, considered by authorities to be an illegal organization of unsanctioned assassins  
  
Dark Elf - see "Dunmer"  
  
Destruction - the branch of magical study that involves offensively oriented spells, including the use of fire, cold, electricity, poison, and curses  
  
drake - a nickname for the septim, derived from the stylized dragon that is stamped on the coin  
  
dremora - a powerful Daedra warrior that serves the will of the Daedric god Mehrunes Dagon; characterized by their glossy black skin, vestigial horns on the forehead, and a suit of Daedric plate mail  
  
Dres - one of the five Great Houses of Morrowind, currently without holdings in Vvardenfell, localized in mainland Morrowind near the Argonian border in the southern part of the country  
  
dreugh - a creature of the sea, characterized by its humanoid torso and octopus-like lower body. Dreugh, while fast swimmers and strong fighters in the water, are often hunted for hides and a waxy substance scraped from their shell-like bodies.  
  
Dunmer - Elvish name for the Dark Elves (singular or plural); the Elvish race native to Morrowind, characterized by their gray skin, red eyes, grim personalities, and a high natural resistance to fire  
  
Dwemer - Elvish name for the Dwarves (singular or plural), also used to describe artifacts and ruins crafted by the Dwemer; considered extinct by many due to the sudden and total disappearance of every Dwemer individual throughout the Empire  
  
East Empire Company - a corporation chartered by the Empire for the development and trade of natural resources throughout the Empire  
  
Ebonheart - the Imperial district capital for Vvardenfell  
  
ebony - a dense black crystalline mineral found in various locations around Vvardenfell, particularly around igneous rock formations or formerly volcanic areas, used to make very durable weapons and armor, though its high density even after forging makes such weapons very heavy  
  
Enchant - the branch of magical study that involves the creation and maintenance of objects imbued with magical effects. Just as Alchemy connects the other magical disciplines through potions, so too does Enchant connect the other magical disciplines through objects, which can range from light-emitting shoes to flaming swords.  
  
Erabenimsun - one of the four Ashlander tribes in Vvardenfell, their main encampment is located near Mt. Assarnibibi in the Molag Amur region  
  
fetcher - a derogatory term  
  
Fighters Guild - an organization of professional mercenaries, bravos, bounty hunters, and other general or specialized warriors which negotiates contracts with individuals and governments for services to be performed. The Fighters Guild has numerous branch offices all over the Empire, and several in Vvardenfell, with services ranging from delivery of goods to elimination of known outlaws beyond the reach of the authorities.  
  
flin - see "Cyrodiilic whiskey"  
  
Ghostfence - a magical barrier created by the Tribunal that rings the base of Red Mountain, reputedly designed to contain Dagoth Ur and his minions  
  
Ghostgate - a hostel for pilgrims, operated by House Redoran and the Tribunal Temple; also acts as a base of operations for the Temple's Buoyant Armiger warriors  
  
glass - a lightweight translucent green material found only in a few locations in Vvardenfell, usually near deep igenous vents, used to make lightweight weapons and armor of incredible hardness  
  
golden saint - a powerful Daedra warrior in the service of the Daedric god Sheogorath, characterized by their golden skin, golden armor, and resistance to magical attacks  
  
Grazelands - a region in the northeastern portion of Vvardenfell, streching from the northern coast south to the Molag Amur region, noted for it lush grassy plains and its inhabitation by the Ahemmusa and Zainab Ashlander tribes  
  
greef - a local Dunmer liquor derived from the comberry, invigorating such that one's strength is increased temporarily but intoxicating such that it impairs one's coordination  
  
guar - a large bipedal reptile that has been mostly domesticated as a beast of burden, characterized by a large dome shaped head, blunt teeth, large turreted eyes, and small vestigial arms; wild guar are still known to roam around Morrowind and are aggressive when approached  
  
High Elf - see "Altmer"  
  
Hlaalu - one of the five Great Houses of Morrowind, their holdings in Vvardenfell are located in the southwestern portion, stretching from the town of Hla Oad north to the town of Caldera  
  
House of Troubles, the - a term used by the Tribunal Temple to denote the four "bad" Daedric gods Malacath, Mehrunes Dagon, Molag Bal, and Sheogorath  
  
hunger - a predatory Daedra that serves the Daedric god Boethiah, characterized by its emaciated body, long spiny limbs, and its ability to eat absolutely anything  
  
Illusion - the branch of magical study that involves the creation of sensory illusions and alteration of physical perceptions. Spells from this school range from the creation of light and the ability to see in the dark to invisibility and "chameleon" cloaking spells  
  
Imperial - the common name for the race of Men that founded the Tamrielic Empire (see "Cyrodiilic")  
  
Imperial Cult - the official church of the Empire, worshipping the pantheon of deities known as the Nine Divines  
  
Imperial Legion - the collective name for the armies of the Empire, regardless of armies maintained separately by the nations of the Empire. The Legion's duties range anywhere from simple law enforcement to full scale warfare.  
  
Indoril - one of the five Great Houses of Morrowind, currently without holdings in Vvardenfell, localized in the capital city of Mournhold and surrounding area; a style of heavy plate armor worn only by House Indoril members and Temple Ordinators, with a penalty of death exacted for anyone not of those organizations who wears such armor and is seen doing so by Ordinators or House Indoril members  
  
jinkblade - a common name given to any bladed weapon carrying an paralyzing enchantment  
  
kagouti - a large predatory bipedal reptile found in Morrowind, characterized by its large tusks and its high bony collar  
  
Kagrenac - a legendary Dwemer king, often associated with the Dunmer hero Nerevar and Dagoth Ur  
  
Khajiit - one of the "beast races" of Tamriel, a bipedal feline race noted for their stealthy movement and incredible dexterity  
  
kwama - an insectoid species native to Morrowind, their hives commonly developed into "egg mines" which harvest kwama eggs for sale to markets as a foodstuff  
  
kwama egg - a large insect egg with a brittle ribbed shell, commonly used as a base for many dishes in native Dunmer cuisine  
  
kwama forager - a small worm-like insectoid, aggressive in nature but incapable of inflicting serious wounds, serving kwama hives by searching for new locations to expand into  
  
kwama queen - an enormous insectoid creature that is the focal point of all egg mines and kwama hives, unable to move under their own power, responsible for spawning all other types of kwama in an egg mine  
  
kwama warrior - a large bipedal insectoid creature responsible for the defense of a kwama hive or egg mine  
  
kwama worker - a large insectoid creature responsible for tending the kwama queen and the kwama eggs, along with digging out the tunnels and chambers inside  
  
Malacath - a Daedric god, commonly worshipped by the spurned and ostracized members of society  
  
Mages Guild - a benevolent and protective society established throughout the Empire for the purposes of researching, educating, and advancing the practices and knowledge of magic  
  
magicka - the essential energy of magic  
  
mazte - a Dunmer beer brewed primarily from saltrice, known to increase one's stamina but impair their intelligence  
  
Mehrunes Dagon - a Daedric god, commonly associated with destruction, ambition, and revolution  
  
Mephala - a Daedric goddess, patron goddess of the Morag Tong, also called the Webspinner or Spider; the spheres of her influence are unknown to mortals, seemingly undemanding of her worshippers and serving no other purpose than to meddle in mortal affairs for her own amusement  
  
Molag Amur - a region in the southeastern portion of Vvardenfell, situated between the town of Suran and the great shrine of Azura on the eastern coast, stretching north to the Ashlands  
  
Molag Bal - a Daedric god, commonly associated with enslavement and destruction of mortals  
  
moon sugar - a rough crystaline compound with mild narcotic and hallucinogenic properties, highly addictive, illegal to trade but can be sold discreetly to Khajiit  
  
Morag Tong - a guild of assassins operating under official sanction by the Empire and the King of Morrowind. The Morag Tong grants certificates to its operatives called "writs of execution," which allow an operative to be immediately pardoned for a crime of murder; such writs are issued as an alternative to open warfare between the Great Houses  
  
Morrowind - a provincial principality of the Tamrielic Empire, the homeland of the Dunmer  
  
Mournhold - the capital of Morrowind, situated on the mainland, home to Almalexia  
  
Mysticism - the branch of magical study that involves (for lack of a better description) the mystical patterns of magic and life itself. Mysticism covers many areas that do not fit neatly into Mages Guild definitions, such as the detection of animals or enchanted items, the power of telekinesis, and teleportation, though there are as many philosophical aspects to the school as there are practical.  
  
n'wah - a derogatory Dunmer term  
  
necromancy - while a legitimate school of magic elsewhere in the Empire, it is strictly forbidden in Morrowind and punishable by burning at the stake  
  
Nerevar - a legendary Dunmer hero, consider as patron saint of warriors by the Tribunal Temple; according to legend, Nerevar was the warrior who defeated Dagoth Ur  
  
Nerevarine - according to Ashlander legends, the Nerevarine is the reincarnation of the hero Nerevar who is destined to unite the Ashlander tribes and the Great Houses and do battle once more with Dagoth Ur and slay him; the legend and associated prophecies of the Nerevarine are considered heresy by the Tribunal Temple, and efforts to spread them are punishable by burning at the stake  
  
netch - a large invertebrate that floats through the air in herds, prized for their hides which are used to make netch leather armor  
  
nix hound - an insectoid creature that roams Vvardenfell, usually in small packs, characterized by their large lower mandibles and their thick green shells  
  
Nord - a race of Men from the country of Skyrim, characterized by their pale skin, blonde hair, and preternatural immunity to cold  
  
ogrim - a giant Daedra in the service of the Daedric god Malacath, notable for their incredible strength and their equally incredible stupidity  
  
Orc - a race of sapient beings from Orsinium, characterized by their green- gray skin, sharp teeth, great strength, and particuarly offensive stench  
  
Ordinators - the guardsmen of the Tribunal Temple and the city watchmen of Vivec and Almalexia  
  
outlander - a term used by Dunmer natively born and raised in Morrowind to denote all foreigners, often used to differentiate between natively born Dunmer and Dunmer born in other parts of the Empire  
  
Red Mountain - a volcano in the center of Vvardenfell, inactive until recently, currently giving off large amounts of ash and dust periodically, the dust seeming to contain a number of diseases including corprus; according to legend, the site of the battle between Nerevar and Dagoth Ur, and Dagoth Ur's current lair  
  
Redguard - a race of Men from the country of Hammerfell, characterized by their dark brown skin, tightly curled black hair, and their masterful swordsmanship  
  
Redoran - one of the five Great Houses of Morrowind, their holdings in Vvardenfell located in the northwestern portion, stretching from Ald'Ruhn north to the fishing village of Khuul  
  
Restoration - the branch of magical study that involves the healing arts, mending flesh and bone, removing curses and disease, and replenishing spent magicka  
  
Sadrith Mora - an Imperial outpost near the Telvanni district capital of Tel Mora  
  
saltrice - a foodstuff grown in the marshy areas of Morrowind  
  
scamp - a small cowardly Daedra that serves the Daedric god Mehrunes Dagon, characterized by their short stature, long pointed ears, and their needle sharp teeth  
  
scrib - a small larval form of the kwama, possessing a paralytic bite, its meat is commonly turned into a nutritious though slightly bland jerky  
  
septim - a single gold coin, the common unit of currency in the Empire  
  
Septim - the name of the ruling family of the Empire, the current Emperor being Uriel Septim VIII  
  
serjo - (pronounced SER-ah) a term of respect, applied to either male or female individuals  
  
shalk - a large insect native to Morrowind that sprays a resin which, mixed with salivary juices from the mandibles, produces a flaming stream which injure its prey; the resin by itself can be harvested and is used in the production of chitin and bonemold armors  
  
shein - a local Dunmer grain alcohol made from saltrice  
  
Sheogorad - an archipelago of small islands along the north coast of Vvardenfell, notable for its large number of Dwemer ruins, Daedric shrines, and the Tribunal Temple's Sanctus Shrine  
  
Sheogorath - a Daedric god commonly associated with madness  
  
silt strider - an enormous insect domesticated by the Dunmer, used as a means of long distance transportation of passengers and cargo between cities in Morrowind  
  
skooma - a highly addictive liquid distillate of moon sugar with more pronounced narcotic and hallucinogenic properties, though it appears to also give consumers a marked increases in strength  
  
slaughterfish - a long thin predatory fish that inhabits the waterways throughout Morrowind  
  
Smuggler's Coast - the northwestern coast of Vvardenfell stretching from Khartag Point north to the village of Khuul  
  
Sotha Sil - one the three god-kings of Morrowind, though he has not been seen by mortals in several centuries  
  
Soltsheim - a large island northwest of Vvardenfell, site of a recently established Imperial colony  
  
sujamma - a strong Dunmer liquor distilled from the comberry, invigorating the drinker's strength considerably but intoxicating to the point where the drinker is almost incapable of cognizant thought  
  
s'wit - a derogatory Dunmer term  
  
Tamriel - the common name for the Empire of Tamriel; a hegemony of various kingdoms under the rule of the Septim dynasty  
  
Tel Mora - district capital for House Telvanni, located near the Zafirabel Bay archipelago  
  
Telvanni - one of the five Great Houses of Morrowind, their holdings in Vvardenfell localized in the collection of small islands that comprise the Zafirabel Bay archipelago on the eastern coast of Vvardenfell  
  
Tribunal - the collective name of the three god-kings of Morrowind  
  
Tribunal Temple - the church dedicated to the worship and service of the Tribunal  
  
Urshilaku - one of the four Ashlander tribes of Vvardenfell, their main encampment is in the Ashlands along the northern coast  
  
Vivec - one of the three god-kings of Morrowind; the name of the holy city where Vivec resides, which also serves as the district capital for the interests of the King of Morrowind  
  
Vvardenfell - a district in the Imperial province of Morrowind; a large island that was set aside as a "religious preserve" as part of the terms of the treaty that incorporated Morrowind into the Tamrielic Empire  
  
winged twilight - a powerful Daedra in the service of the Daedric goddess Azura, characterized by their broad wings and bluish skin  
  
Zafirabel Bay - a large deep bay on the eastern coast of Vvardenfell  
  
Zainab - one of the four Ashlander tribes of Vvardenfell, their main encampment is located in the southern part of the Grazelands near the Molag Amur region 


	2. Chapter 1: Landfall

Chapter 1 - Landfall  
  
"Each Event is preceeded by Prophecy. But without the Hero, there is no Event."  
--Zurin Arctus, The Underking  
  
* * *  
  
The prisoner slept fitfully on the floor of the hold. His eyes fluttered now and again, but he remained silent as he twitched and turned on the thin bedroll he'd been provided. His dreams were strange, disjointed, vistas passing in front of his eyes that felt familiar in his soul yet unknown to his waking mind. Tall mountains bristling with granite teeth rushed past him, opening onto lush plains of grass, then turning out towards the sea. He caught sight of a great monument, the statue of a woman holding a stylized star and moon in each hand, then a small lighthouse standing against the sea as a torrent of rain came down around its blazing bonfire. As he slept and dreamed, he heard a voice whispering in his ear. It was an ancient voice, soft in its tone but resonant with unimaginable power.  
"Fear not," it said soothingly, "for I am watchful."  
He wanted to answer that voice, wanted to know who it was and why it was watching over him, but all he saw was his dreams. The last thing he saw was a stone wall, inscribed with the ancient hieratics of Daedric script. The only part of the inscription that he could make out read, "Many fall, but one remains." Then the image seemed to disappear, shimmering as if under the surface of a lake broken by raindrops. He felt somebody's hand on his shoulder, hearing an rough burring voice.  
"Wake up. Why are you shaking? Wake up!"  
The prisoner's eyes snapped open, the dream image overlaying his field of vision faintly. He saw an old Dunmer standing over him, one eye permanently closed by a long slashing scar, the other eye a brilliant red.  
"You were dreaming," the old Dark Elf said.  
"Yes," confirmed the prisoner. He almost said "bad dreams," but thought better of it. They were surreal and a little confusing, but they weren't bad. If anything, there was a faint feeling of safety, as if coming home from a long journey.  
"What's your name?"  
The prisoner rolled up and on to his feet. "Averren," he answered.  
"A strange name for a Dunmer."  
"Breton foster mother, gave me that name when I was little, never got rid of it." Averren stood looking at the old elf. "Were you up last night? I fell asleep . . .but I can't remember when exactly."  
"I've been up a long time. There was a storm, though I think we sailed through the edge of it rather than the heart. I heard the guards saying we'd be reaching Morrowind by daylight." The old Dunmer looked up to the ceiling of the hold. "Damned if I know what time it is now."  
"Morrowind? They're taking us to Morrowind?" Averren asked with a tremor of uncertainty in his voice.  
"They're taking you to Morrowind for sure. My fate, I think, is not quite so clear." The old Dunmer rattled the chain attached to his shackles. "I do wish I could walk the streets of Vivec one more time before I die. Lovely city, really. Stand by the canals, watching the gondolas passing from one canton to the next. Very peaceful." A smile lit the Dunmer's face as his good eye closed. "So many good things, and so many wonderous places. And not just in Vvardenfell. The capital city of Mournhold. The southern marshes near Argonia." Sighing softly, he looked at Averren. "You're an outlander, but you are a Dunmer, and you are going home, my young friend."  
A scraping sound echoed softly throughout the hold, then a series of small bumps rocked the ship slightly.  
"I think we have made landfall, wherever it is they've decided to put you." The old Dunmer gripped Averren's shoulder and smiled. "May your road be level and your sword swift, should the Daedra try to take you."  
Averren smiled a little. "Don't think I've heard that phrase before."  
"A very old Dunmer blessing," replied the old Dunmer. Glancing back over his shoulder, he frowned a little. "Best be quiet. The guard's coming to collect you."  
The door to the makeshift cell opened, and a ruddy faced Cyrodiilic man in leather armor stepped through. "Let's go, prisoner. Get yourself up on deck. I've no intention of staying in this nasty little spot any longer than I have to." He made a move to grab Averren's shoulder, but the Dunmer pulled away and scowled at him.  
"I've got two feet, and I can walk just fine." Looking down, he glanced at the shackles around his ankles, then smirked at the guard. "Though I could move a bit faster if I wasn't wearing this cast iron footwear."  
Grumbling, the guard tossed Averren the key. "If you think I'm stupid enough to bend down there to take those off, you're wrong. Take them off yourself, and get moving." Averren knelt down and quickly undid his shackles. He glanced around to see if he could slip the old Dunmer the key, but couldn't find him. Perhaps he was hiding in the shadows somewhere, but from what Averren could see, the old elf had simply disappeared into thin air.  
The guard's hand clamping down his shoulder brought him back into focus. "Move, you worthless fetcher!" Averren was half-led, half-dragged out of the cell and up the ladder to the mid-deck. With a shove, the guard snarled at him. "Up the ladder, Dunmer, and keep things as civil as possible."  
Averren didn't think the guard caught the irony of the statement, but wasn't going to stand around and try to enlighten the man. He stepped up through the hatch into the sunlight.  
Taking a look at his surroundings, Averren saw a small pier off to his left, leading to a building at the edge of what looked to be a small town. Thickly trunked trees soared up to dominate the small buildings scattered around them, stringy hanging moss draped over the lower branches, the hum and buzz of small insects mixing with the sound of the water lapping against the shore. Behind him stood a small stone lighthouse. Averren shuddered unconsciously. It was the lighthouse from his dream.  
A coughing sound snapped the Dunmer's head around. A Redguard wearing a chainmail hauberk smiled at him. "If you'll head down the gangway there, your escort will take you to the Census Office for processing." Peering down, Averren saw a man standing in a suit of armor belonging to the Imperial Legion. Did all prisoners get this sort of treatment when they were transferred to Morrowind? Managing a weak smile at the Redguard, Averren walked down the gangplank to the pier and turned to face the Legionnaire.  
"Good morning," said the Legionnaire politely. "We've been expecting you. If you'll follow me, the Census Office will take down your particulars, and you'll be sent on your way."  
As they walked up the pier to the Census Office, Averren tried to strike up a conversation with the guard. "When you say I'll be sent on my way, you mean that I'm being transferred to another prison? Or a labor camp?"  
"Neither," answered the Legionnaire. "As I understand it, once you've been processed, you'll be a free man. Sellus Gravius can tell you far more than I can." He stopped in front of a door that led into a squat, two story building. "Just step inside, and they'll start processing you."  
"Thank you." With a small gulp, Averren stepped inside.  
The office was tastefully decorated, though its decor spoke of strict and efficient business. A large tapestry depicting Tiber Septim's assault on Summerset Isle hung along one wall, the other walls stood lined with tall bookcases crammed with thick volumes and scroll racks. A large desk sat almost directly across from the door Averren had stepped through, a quill and inkwell standing ready to take down information, a thick ledger opposite that, and a wizened old Cyrodiilic man in a simple brown robe sitting behind it all.  
"Ahhhh, good morning. Come, come. We've a lot of work to do. We were advised of your arrival, but we've had almost no information about you in particular." The old man reached into the deck and pulled out a sheet of parchment. "The sooner we finish up here, the sooner you can be on your way. Name?"  
Averren stood silently, unsure of what to do.  
"Are you a mute?" asked the old man curiously.  
"No," replied Averren. "I'm just. . . a little overwhelmed."  
"Yes, that happens from time to time." The old man snapped his fingers twice, and a Legionnaire came in carrying a chair. "Do sit down and make yourself comfortable." Averren sat down, looking at the old man. "Now, let's begin again. Name?"  
"Averren Couerlayn."  
The old man scribbled, though he raised an eyebrows as he wrote. "Strange name for a Dunmer."  
"It's been observed." replied Averren dryly.  
"Date of birth?"  
"The 2nd of Frostfall."  
This brought the old man's head up. "The Tower?"  
"Yes, sir."  
"Interesting." The old man looked back down at his parchment and scribbled. "Occupation?"  
"I've been in prison, but I doubt that counts as an occupation."  
"Quite correct. Let's go over your skills, see what you might be best at."  
The next two hours were mind numbing as Averren described his skills and talents as best he could without alluding to his former occupation. Eventually, the clerk jotted Averren's occupation as "adventurer," which suited Averren as being nicely non-descript. After blotting, sanding, and sealing the parchment, the clerk handed the document to Averren.  
"Now, if you'll take this to Sellus Gravius, he'll handle the final paperwork for your release." The clerk pointed towards the door the Legionnaire had come through when bringing out the chair. Averren stood, smiled, and turned to the door.  
After walking down a short corridor, Averren turned right into a spartan little dining room, a table and a pair of rough benches set along two sides. A dagger had been buried point first into the wood, tacking a short note in place. Whoever wrote the note was asking for the dagger to be sharpened, and Averren guessed that whoever had sharpened it was proving the job had been done. Averren took the dagger and the note, folding the latter up and tucking it into the waistband of his trousers. Turning around, he spied a small box sitting on a shelf that was otherwise laden with dishes. On top of the box sat a single lockpick.  
He knew he shouldn't take that pick into his hand. He knew he shouldn't try to open that box. But something prodded him to do it, to see if he still had the right touch. Taking up the lockpick, he inserted the tip and began to work. After ten minutes, he still didn't have the box opened, which frustrated him badly. The sort of lock on the box was cheap and simple. A child could have opened it with less sophisticated tools than what Averren was using, and he knew it. Removing the pick, Averren smacked the box with a disgusted grunt. He heard a faint click and saw a hairline crack open on the facing of the lock. His lockpicking skills had suffered greatly in prison, but he still had that magic touch, the one that had opened more doors and locked chests for him than he could easily count. Inside the box sat a small stack of ten septims. Not much, but more than Averren had seen in a long time, and certainly enough to live on comfortably for a couple weeks. However, the problem of getting them out without anybody noticing was something that gave him pause. Hitting on an idea, Averren cut a small slit into the inside of his trousers' waistband and fed the coins in flat. Hopefully, he wouldn't be jumping up and down anytime soon. Once that was finished, he stepped through the door at the far end of the dining room.  
The door opened up into a small courtyard, or what would be a courtyard in more affluent surroundings. There were no flowers, fountains, statuary, or anything of particular note, save for a rain barrel next to a door on the opposite side of the yard. Averren suddenly felt very thirsty. All that talking with the clerk had dried him out considerably, and some water would be just the thing. Unfortunately, the rain barrel was bone dry. Aside from a small cobweb and some dust, the only thing in the barrel was a small leather pouch. He pulled the pouch out and opened it, then emptied the contents into his hand. All that fell out was a single ring, an unmarked band with a small blue stone set in the center, just big enough to fit on his smallest finger. Since prisoners, even recently released prisoners, didn't generally wear rings, it seemed like a good idea to keep this one out of sight. Averren put the ring back into the pouch, then tied the drawstring to the leg hole of his underwear. Taking a breath, he opened the door.  
This office was smaller and more furnished than the front office. An armor stand sat in one corner with the steel and electrum inlaid field plate of a Knight Protector of the Legion neatly displayed. A small desk sat along one wall, and behind the desk sat a square jawed Cyrodiilic man, undoubtedly the owner of the armor. The man stood up and came over to Averren. "Sellus Gravius, at your service. You must be Averren."  
"Yes, I am," Averren replied slowly. "I am also very confused."  
"Understandable, given the circumstances. Come, sit down and have a drink." Gravius led Averren to a chair in front of the desk, then went to a small cupboard and pulled out a bottle and two short glasses. "Is brandy suitable?"  
"Very," replied Averren. It'd had been ages since he'd last had a sip of Cyrodiilic brandy, and the anticipation warmed him greatly.  
Gravius poured the brandy into the glasses, then handed one to Averren and sat down. He began by looking straight into Averren's crimson eyes. "I don't know you. Until yesterday, I had never heard of you. Yesterday morning, a courier came from Ebonheart, carrying a package marked with the Emperor's seal, and strict instructions on how that package was to be opened. Inside that package was this document." He reached into his desk drawer and handed Averren a thin folded piece of parchment, held closed by a wax seal showing the Emperor's signet. "Open it."  
Averren broke the seal with his thumb, unfolded the parchment, and read it, his eyes widening with every line. "This. . . this is. . . is a full pardon."  
Gravius only nodded slowly. "From the Emperor himself."  
Averren sank back in the chair, setting his glass of brandy on the desk. Full pardons were rare, but they could be bought if you had the money and knew whose palms to gild. Full pardons from the Emperor were almost unheard of, and absolutely impossible to buy. Men and mer alike had a better chance of being kissed by a goddess than getting a pardon from the Emperor.  
"I see from your expression that you know no more about this than I did yesterday. The courier explained to me what that document was, and to explain it to you if you were unable to read. You seem to have friends in high places, or you've got the Divines pulling strings for you." Gravius sipped his brandy, watching Averren, waiting.  
He could only sit quietly in the chair, his own glass of brandy just out of reach. Averren didn't think he had the energy to reach out to it, much less drink it. Ever since he'd been pulled out of his jail cell in the middle of the night, he had been carried, pushed, dragged, carted, and shipped out on a boat to a place that Averren had heard of but never visited. He had no idea where he was, he had no friends any longer, and he had just been given a second chance by one of the most powerful humans on earth.  
"Do you have any questions?" asked Gravius gently.  
"Where am I?" asked Averren, his voice becoming slightly hoarse.  
"You are in the town of Seyda Neen, though 'town' might be too generous a term. We are located in the Vvardenfell district of Morrowind. And once you hand me the census information that Socucius Ergalla gave you in the front office, you will be a more or less free man."  
"More or less?"  
"Yes. It seems that the Emperor's magnanimous gesture is not without a price. In exchange for granting this pardon, the Emperor asks that you deliver a package from this office to a man in the town of Balmora. The package is sealed and is not to be opened by anybody under any circumstances except for the intended recipient, one Caius Cosades. The courier did not leave any information on the exact whereabouts of Serjo Cosades, so I imagine you will have to get curious. The courier did leave another small gift for you." Gravius reached underneath the desk and put a small leather pack on the desk. "Inside is a change of clothes, trail rations for a week, and a purse with one hundred septims, along with the package that you are to deliver. You have your new life ahead of you, Averren. Make the most of it."  
Averren gulped the last of his brandy, placed the census information on the desk, then stood up and slung the pack over his shoulder. "Thank you, sir. I will." He turned and stepped through the last door of the Census Office and into the street. 


	3. Chapter 2: Seyda Neen

[Chapter 2 - Seyda Neen]  
  
Just as Sellus Gravius said, describing Seyda Neen as a town was being generous. Aside from the lighthouse and the Census Office, the only other large structure in town was a two story tradehouse. One side of the street had a few houses built in the Imperial style. The other side had a small cluster of clapboard shacks next to a muck-filled pond. Across a small stream stood a rough platform, and standing next to the platform was quite possibly the largest creature Averren had ever seen. It towered over even the Census Office, easily twice as high as the conical roof of the Census Office's cupola. The legs were easily as thick as Averren's torso, while the creature's body looked like it could carry a few dozen people quite easily on its back without any difficulty, the knobby chitinous shell on the sides suggesting equally good potential handholds on top.  
As Averren gazed on the massive insect, he felt somebody bump into him lightly. Instantly, he snapped his gaze down, looking at a Bosmer with liquid black eyes. Averren had very mixed feelings about the Wood Elves. On the one hand, they were excellent shots with a bow, which made them dangerous to cross. On the other hand, they were small and nimble, which made them useful hands on certain extralegal activities.  
"Sorry, stranger," burbled the Bosmer. "But I saw you coming out of the Census Office, and I was hoping you could help me."  
"I might be able to," Averren replied cautiously.  
"Well, you see, when the guards played their weekly game of 'shake down Fargoth,' that's me by the way, they took all my money as well as a certain ring. Old family heirloom, been with my family for generations. You wouldn't have seen an old ring laying around in there, would you?"  
"What'd it look like?" asked Averren, having a pretty good idea already what the description would be.  
"Nothing fancy. A plain band with a blue stone set into the center."  
Reaching into his trousers, Averren opened the pouch and pulled out the ring he'd found, handing it to Fargoth. "I believe this is yours."  
Fargoth's face lit up and he began to caper around Averren, hooting and yipping and making quite a scene. Averren let Fargoth celebrate a bit, then put a hand on the Bosmer's shoulder.  
"You're welcome," he said gently.  
"A thousand thanks to you, my friend! Come, come! Let me repay the favor. I'll introduce you to Arrille. He help you out the same way you helped me out." Fargoth tugged on Averren's hand and guided him down the street a little ways to the only tradehouse in town. As they walked, a Legionnaire passed by them, elbowing Fargoth in the back and knocking him down. Averren's anger flared and he was a heartbeat from challenging the soldier when he realized that it would be a losing proposition. He was unarmed and unarmored, while the Legionnaire was heavily armored and very well armed. As much as it offended him, he held his temper and his tongue, then helped Fargoth. The Bosmer had picked up a large bruise on his face, but didn't appear to suffered serious injury.  
"You all right?"  
"I'll live," Fargoth replied. "I guess I should be used to it by now." Averren caught Fargoth's hand moving out of the corner of his eye, and watched as the bruise began to fade rapidly. Fargoth's ring was enchanted, some sort of healing spell, perfect for minor wounds and injuries. Keeping his mouth shut, Averren allowed himself to be led to the tradehouse.  
"Arrille!" cried Fargoth happily as he entered the tradehouse. "A new friend! He found my ring!"  
Averren stepped inside after Fargoth, seeing an Altmer glance between him and Fargoth. The flat golden eyes sized up Averren quickly, as if they were able to strip a man of his flesh and look straight into his soul. He momentarily wondered just how long Arrille had been alive, and how long he'd been in this damp and dingy little town.  
"You helped Fargoth get his ring back?" the Altmer asked quietly.  
"I happened across it. And when he asked for it, it just didn't seem right to lie to him. After all, what's a ring to me right now? Got no use for it."  
This answer seemed to please Arrille. "For that, I'll knock down the prices around here. You can take lodgings here, if you like. The normal price is ten drakes per night, but for you, five."  
"Ten drakes a night?" Averren exclaimed in surprise. "Gods, I could have stayed in a place like this for two weeks or better on that money."  
A knowing look came into Arrille's eyes. "You've been away a long time, haven't you, my friend."  
"Too long, it appears."  
"Times change, my friend. Things have gotten bigger, more expensive. Even in damp little squats like this, prices have only risen. Such is the march of time and money. They'll change again, better or worse, after enough time has passed."  
Nodding in agreement, Averren dug into the purse and laid ten drakes down on the table. "For two nights."  
"Make yourself at home." Arrille handed Averren a key.  
  
* * *  
  
The next couple days were certainly educational for Averren. Most of the regulars around the common room in Arrille's tradehouse were certainly willing to tell stories for the cost of a drink, and Averren eavesdropped on plenty more when he wasn't feeling particularly thirsty or generous at the time. The barmaid, Elone, was more than happy to fill in the numerous blanks in Averren's knowledge about Morrowind and Vvardenfell in particular. Apparently, when she wasn't tending bar, she hired herself out as a scout and guide for trade caravans or explorers. Though she admitted to not having seen every last inch of the island, she could confidently say she'd been around to most of the important spots and knew most of the various crossroads. Averren also learned some of the more cutthroat card games that were played in Vvardenfell, and wisely cut his losses, a lesson that a Nord named Hrisskar seemed have a great deal of trouble learning.  
And then there were the many Legionnaires who patrolled the town day and night. When they weren't on duty, more than a few stopped into Arrille's tradehouse for a quick drink and a free moment to vent their frustrations to the open air. Some complained about the number of insects in Seyda Neen, especially the small bloodsucking variety that somehow found the holes in their armor better than any swordsman or assassin's dagger. Some complained about all the dampness and how it gave them the worst hacking coughs they'd ever had. Some complained about the lack of excitement in the area. A few of these complaints were readily countered by the complaint that there was plenty to do, they just couldn't leave town to get it done. They pointed out a small cave just down the coast a little ways, within easy walking distance of the town. They knew it was being used for smuggling, but Sellus Gravius wouldn't send a detachment to investigate.  
When Averren asked Elone what cave the Legionnaires were talking about, she rolled her eyes as she cleaned a goblet.  
"It's a cave, just around the bend from the silt strider platform. And there are some people there that are trying to get into the smuggling business. I say 'trying' because they're quite obviously amateurs and that may be the only reason Sellus Gravius won't send troops in there. He figures that they'll get themselves killed soon enough. They'll make the wrong deal or cross the wrong people and that will be that."  
Moving downstairs, Averren paid for another night at the tradehouse, then asked to look through Arrille's equipment tables. After some testing, he settled on a cold-forged iron saber and some pieces of chitin armor, not enough to fully cover him, but enough to protect the vital parts. Arrille didn't ask questions, but he had a suspicion that Averren was about to go looking for trouble.  
Trying to keep a low profile as he walked through town, Averren walked past the silt strider platform, then stopped just short of the cave entrance. It looked out on the road, wide open, practically inviting somebody to poke their head inside. Across the road was a small shallow inlet that would work perfectly for some sort of small boat, even a small sailboat if you were willing to row out a bit first. This had to be the place. Even if it turned out to be nothing than an animal den, it would be good practice for Averren's rusty skills. Sitting down on a rock, Averren donned the breastplate first, then pulled on a pair of close fitting gauntlets, a snug pair of chitin boots, and finally a slightly dented Legion surplus helm, the chainmail neck cape making a faint scraping sound against the back of the chitin breastplate. Drawing his saber, Averren entered the cave.  
The air in the cave was slightly damp with a mixed smell of salt and mold, some faintly phosphorescent mosses clinging to the rocky walls in small blobs in various places. Further in, Averren could make out a flickering light, probably a cooking fire or a brazier of some sort. The cave was undoubtedly occupied. But then again, he'd known that coming in here.  
Treading ever so softly, Averren made his way towards a large chamber, A rickety set of stairs curved down along the wall to the chamber floor, a small cooking fire sitting in the middle of the chamber, a rowboat overturned and propped up against the wall. A single Dunmer woman sat on a stool, the hilt of a slim dagger sticking out of the top of her boot, her back to the cave entrance. On the opposite wall, a battered ramshackle gate served as a rude barrier to the next chamber. Averren began to creep down the stairs, inching his way down. It was slow going, moving as if through a river of tar, but he was certainly dead silent. He froze as the Dunmer stood up, went over to the gate, then moved back over to the stool, sitting down and resuming her vigil over the fire. She hadn't seen him. All he had to do now was take his next step . . .  
The board splintered with a nerve shattering crack.  
Instantly, the Dunmer woman sprang to her feet and came running up the stairs with her dagger drawn. Averren barely registered that he was in danger before the first dagger thrust came straight for his heart. His hand brought the blade of his saber up, the steel knife blade skittering down the edge of the sword in a rough effort to deflect the blow. The smuggler immediately took a swing at him with her off hand, forcing Averren to pull back a little. Dropping back a step, the smuggler began weaving the knife back and forth in front of her body, hoping to distract Averren. Refusing to fail for the bait, Averren used the reach on his weapon to take a few swipes at her, the tip grazing the back of her knife hand. The smuggler snarled and charged, the knife aimed for Averren's belly. Making a clumsy swing, Averren parried the stroke, forcing her knife hand out towards the chamber. Without hesitation, she kicked him square in the gut, putting him on his back, his saber hanging over the edge of the stairs.  
"Picked the wrong cave, n'wah," the smuggler sneered as she brought her dagger to point at his chest.  
Even with the helm in place, Averren's peripheral vision was still good enough to give him a wide view of his surroundings. He caught sight of the splintered stair board that had betrayed his position to the smuggler, the cheap nails that had secured it rusty and loose. In a flash, Averren decided to make a gamble.  
Bringing his heel down hard, the board broke in half, the two halves flying up and smashing the smuggler's wrist, forcing her to drop the dagger. Bringing his saber around, Averren slashed her belly, the tip carrying through to the stone, striking sparks as the smuggler clutched at her midsection in a futile effort to keep her entrails from spilling out. Before she could call for help, Averren drove the point of the saber straight through her heart, the body slowly collapsing against him.  
Cursing silently to himself, Averren pushed the corpse off, then pulled himself into a crouch, saber at the ready, expecting reinforcements. His wait wasn't very long. Another Dunmer came through the gate on the other side of the chamber, wearing a simple green homespun robe and sandals. He immediately spied Averren and the corpse of his partner, figured out what happened, then began snarling in a strange language. Flames began to dance along the smuggler's fingertips as the incantation continued. Even after thirty years, Averren knew when magic was being used and how to recognize most basic spells. Like the fireball that the smuggler was now launching towards him.  
Throwing himself off the stairs, Averren felt the billowing heat behind him as the fireball smacked into the chamber wall. He landed close to the new opponent and immediately tried a sweeping cut across the smuggler's belly. The mage jumped back a step, a dagger dropping from his sleeve and into his hand fluidly. Not wishing to be skewered or flash- fried, Averren swept the smuggler's legs out from under him. The smuggler landed on his back with a grunt, the dagger flying out of his hand. Averren pounced on him immediately, driving the point of his saber through one of the smuggler's lungs. The smuggler began coughing up blood as he began a new incantation, eldritch flames sparking on his fingertips, then snuffing out as he expired.  
Averren drew the saber from his second corpse, then sighed softly. Whatever he found in here would have to be awfully valuable to risk one's life over.  
"What's going on here?!" demanded a voice from Averren's left.  
Without hesitation, Averren's arm snapped out, the tip of the saber slicing open a Dunmer woman's throat right at the windpipe, a steel shuriken dropping to the ground with a muted clinking sound, her face terminally surprised. A shudder coursed through Averren as the body came to rest on the floor of the cave, the blood now flowing out of her neck in thick runnels. He hadn't fought that hard in a long time, and certainly not with such deadly results.  
Going through the gate, Averren looked carefully on both sides. Another rickety staircase, one leading down to a torch lit cave, the other leading up to a more dimly lit cavern with a crude fence across the mouth. Averren mentally flipped a coin and headed up the stairs. The fence, rough as it was, managed to have an equally crude gate, a single key hanging on a nail driven in the cave wall to the side. Holding up the torch, Averren peeked through the pickets of the fence. He saw shape moving in the gloom, but they remained indistinct. He snagged the key, fitted it to the lock, and opened it, then stepped into the chamber.  
The torchlight revealed a small group of Khajiiti and Argonians, all of them moving about listlessly in the gloom, all them with glazed looks in their eyes, all of them with a heavy metal bracer locked tightly around their wrist. An Argonian shambled over to Averren, the clouded look in his eyes not quite cloaking a spark of intellect.  
"Key," it hissed weakly, slowly raising his wrist.  
Averren studied the bracer closely for a moment, finding a locking mechanism built into the side of the bracer. Taking the key he'd used for the gate, he tested the lock, finding it slid in only about halfway. A large notch in the key, right at that point, however, left Averren free to turn the key. With a click, the bracer popped off and fell to the ground. Life flooded into the Argonian's eyes, and a fanged smile beamed at Averren, the voice stronger and more sibilant.  
"Thank you, friend, for you have saved me from the slave markets."  
"Slaves?!" Having grown up in the Imperial City, the idea of slavery was abhorrent to Averren.  
The Argonian nodded and continued. "Without you, we would have been sold to the highest bidder, perhaps in Molag Mar, or in Tel Mora. But now, we are free." Bending down to pick up the bracer, the Argonian pulled the key from the lock and began to remove the bracers from his comrades. "We will decide where to go from here. If you are interested, there are many crates in the chamber below. Perhaps some of the goods inside will be of some use to you."  
"There's a boat in the main chamber," offered Averren. "You could drag it out, try making it to the mainland."  
"My thanks again, but there are those who will shelter us. Do not worry. Forget you have seen us. It will make your life easier." The freed slaves filed out of the pen and to the main chamber. Averren could hear them spitting on the bodies of their deceased captors as they passed. As they were moving the boat out to the beach, Averren explored the lower chamber. Several crates sat haphazardly stacked along one wall. It took Averren the better part of an hour to get them lined up on the ground to better examine their contents.  
The results were disappointing to say the least. Some herbs and spices, some worn wooden kitchen implements, several sets of clothes that had started to turn moldy from the conditions in the cavern, a few musty pillows, and other brick-a-brack that Arrille wouldn't pay a bent drake for if he was ordered to at sword point. The last crate seemed to most lucrative of the bunch, containing some slightly rusty iron weapons and a badly nicked silvered longsword, along with a pitted steel breastplate with gauntlets. It was only after removing the breastplate that Averren noticed a thick bulging leather pouch laying at the bottom of the crate. Taking it out, he tested the weight in his hand. Bulky, but fairly light. Some raw semi-precious stones, perhaps. Opening the bag, Averren looked into it, a faintly cloying smell wafting up to his nose.  
His mind instantly recognized the smell, forcing his hand to drop the pouch and exhale hard through his nose. Moon sugar! That's how the smugglers had hoped to make it big. Capture the slaves, use the moon sugar to keep them docile, and sell off whatever was left after disposing of the slaves. Ambitious, but stupid. Much like what Elone had told him.  
It took a little work, but Averren managed to jury rig a litter to carry the salvageable goods back to the tradehouse. He left the moon sugar and the junk behind. He didn't think he'd be needing it in Balmora.  
Arrille proved to be a brutally shrewd negotiator with a discerning eye, but ended up paying Averren eighty-five drakes for his collection. A pittance of its true value, Averren was sure, but he knew that he was not up to snuff as far as haggling went. All told, Averren now had one hundred and fifty some odd septims to his name. He was feeling pretty good about the whole adventure, all things considered when he ran in Vodunius Nuccius. If Seyda Neen had a town loser, Nuccius was it. He got by on odd jobs and charity, and it showed in his threadbare clothes, the slightly stooped posture, and the world-worn note in his voice.  
"Hello, Averren," smiled Vodunius weakly.  
"Hello, Vodunius. How're you doing?"  
"I've had better days, but you know that. I was thinking about Cyrodiil today. How much I miss the Imperial City. My brother and I used to have a nice little shipping company there, organizing wagon caravans here and there. We were going to start on the sea lanes, but then. . .the accident, you know."  
Averren nodded. He'd heard this story before, though the exact nature of "the accident" was never mentioned. Whatever it was, it had led Nuccius to Vvardenfell, and ultimately Seyda Neen.  
"Heard there's a ship coming in tonight from Skyrim, bound for the City. If it's the one I'm thinking of, I hear that they're part of a trading company that ships up around there a lot, based out of home. I asked them the last time if they'd be willing to take on a passenger in steerage, they said it'd be seventy-five drakes. I've been trying to get the money together, but I can never quite seem to make it."  
Again, Averren nodded. Nuccius couldn't bluff to save his life.  
"I know this may sound pretty desperate, but I know you've got some money in your purse, and I still have enough of my pride not to beg from a recent acquaintance. So, I'd like to sell you something. A trinket that I picked up somewhere a long time ago. I've avoided selling it because there's a defect in it." Nuccius reached in his pocket and pulled out a thick gold band with a slightly dull finish to it, perhaps from lack of regular cleaning. "Used to be, these were given to Legion scouts when they needed to make a hasty escape from an impending battle. Except this one makes the wearer pay for the gift of fleet steps. You'll run faster than you ever have before, but it'll hurt you to do so." Nuccius looked at Averren closely. "I wouldn't sell this cursed item if I didn't need the money, Averren. And I wouldn't recommend you using it, but it seems only fair I tell you about it now instead of selling it and having you find out the hard way later. I may be poor, but I'm not a swindler."  
Smiling and shaking his head softly, Averren took the ring and looked at it carefully. "How much?"  
"A hundred fifty, I should say."  
Averren opened up his coin purse and counted out the coins, leaving himself with only a few. "Make the most of it, Vodunius. Second chances don't come along often."  
"I will, Averren." Nuccius squeezed Averren's shoulder firmly, smiling fully for the first time in what looked like a very long time.  
Crashes and clatterings came from the tradehouse as Fargoth ran out the door and down the street, with Hrisskar in hot pursuit and roaring.  
"Come back here, you miserable fetcher!"  
"You'll have to catch me first!" squeaked Fargoth as he ran pell-mell out into the swampy woods. Hrisskar stopped at the edge of a mere and bellowed at the Bosmer's retreating form.  
"I'll beat that hiding place out of you yet!" Look red faced from exertion and embarrassment, Hrisskar went back into the tradehouse.  
  
* * *  
Sunset spilled over Seyda Neen like a casually dropped veil. From his vantage point, Averren watched Vodunius Nuccius' ship carry him towards the horizon. He silently prayed that life would be better to Nuccius back where he belonged. Then Averren resumed his vigil, laying prone on the platform at the top of the lighthouse, waiting. The last of Averren's coins had been spent on buying Hrisskar drinks, getting a bit tipsy, enough to wheedle out of him what he'd been chasing Fargoth for earlier that day. The Bosmer, from what Hrisskar could figure, had to have a hiding place, a stash of loot that he wasn't telling anybody about. There was no way he could be surviving the way he did on the odd jobs he did around town. Somehow, he had to have a stash.  
Averren kept still on the platform as darkness fell. He didn't know for sure that Fargoth's stash was somewhere in town, but it was the most likely area to watch since Fargoth himself didn't stray too far from town except when trying to avoid Hrisskar and the other bullies in town. And having a stash out in the wilderness was too risky, too easy for somebody to stumble on and loot. Fargoth would want to keep it close by, but well hidden, the better to keep an eye on.  
His body began to feel very stiff, but he couldn't move yet. He'd stay put here if it killed. Patience, after all, was a virtue that he'd learned a very long time ago, and thirty years in prison couldn't dull that.  
Just after the smaller moon rose over the horizon, Averren caught sight of Fargoth. The Bosmer seemed to be aimlessly wandering the street of Seyda Neen, but to Averren's trained eye, he could see Fargoth was trying to make sure nobody was following him. After several minutes, Fargoth ambled his way over to a muck filled pool with a rotten stump more or less in the center. For the next few minutes, Fargoth crouched in that pool, his hands under the surface under the water. Then, the Bosmer walked away, his route still circuitous, returning to his own little hovel.  
Averren slid back along the platform until the great bonfire masked him from view, then stood up and stretched out. He'd borrowed a rope from the lighthouse keeper, not explaining why he needed it, and had anchored it to a support holding up the platform. Kicking the rope over the side, Averren worked his way down to the ground, then made a bee line for the stump. He reached under the water's surface, feeling around the sides of the stump under he felt a hollow spot. Reaching in, Averren pulled out a box and opened it. A heavy leather purse occupied most of the space, with the rest containing a decent set of lockpicks, and the ring that Averren had recovered earlier.  
"Sorry, Fargoth," Averren murmured, "but I think I might be needing this more than you right now. I'll pay you back for it, someday." He emptied the box into his pack, then put the box back into its spot under the water. Averren stepped out of the pool and headed down the road, pausing to recover the moon sugar from the cave. As much as he hated the stuff, he had a feeling that he might need to sell it off someplace. If he didn't get caught. As the moons continued to rise in the sky, Averren walked down the road to Balmora. 


	4. Chapter 3: Initiation

[Chapter 3 - Initiation]  
  
The two moons shone down softly on the sedate canals of Vivec. Most of the gondola drivers had retired to their apartments in the nearby cantons or had trudged home over the western bridge of the Hlaalu canton to whatever homesteads they claimed. Ordinators patrolled the walkways, their high crested helms reflecting the moonlight with a slightly golden hue. The nights in Vivec could be very quiet at times.  
Feruren Oran stepped out into the midlevel walkway of the Hlaalu canton, his nerves slightly on edge. He'd spent the better part of the evening the Elven Nations cornerclub, drinking and gossiping, hoping he could drum up a little business. As a spellsword, his talents with both steel and sorcery made him attractive for all kinds of work, legal or otherwise. Tonight, though, the Altmer left somewhat early. Rumors had started to circulate that Oran had cheated a Redoran nobleman and a Hlaluu retainer, pulling the same scam on both of them by leading them in turn to an abandoned ebony mine, one that had been played out years earlier. Oran would never admit to such activities, of course. He remembered getting a challenge from the Redoran a few months back, a simple note penned in a stark hand demanding satisfaction in the Arena. Of the Hlaluu retainer, he'd heard nothing. And that might be why he was nervous. House Redoran, hard and ruthless though they might be, operated with a sense of responsibility. If anybody was going to kill for the House, it would be the House that did it, direct violent confrontation that was sure to end with a dead body. But House Hlaluu had a shady quality to them. Despite their continued protestations of innocence and claims of being "the bridge uniting Morrowind to all of Tamriel," their connections to unsavory individuals and potentially criminal organizations made it hard to say whether you would see a Hlaluu combatant or feel the knife in your back first.  
Still, whether it was Hlaluu or Redoran, Feruren felt he could handle almost anything. He had plenty of spells at his disposal, plenty of magicka flowing through his body, and a good sharp dai-katana strapped to his back when his magic finally failed. Yes, he was prepared for anything.  
A massive hand closed around Oran's throat from behind, forcing him against an equally massive body. He felt himself being lifted up a foot in the air, then caught a glimpse of a wickedly sharp Argonian-style tanto plunging towards his chest. The blade cracked the top of the Altmer's sternum as it sank in, then began to split the bone as the massive hand dragged it down the centerline of Oran's body. The pain was exquisite, but Oran could only manage a faint choked screech. The blade slipped out, then sank back in as his attacker drew it crossways, spilling the Altmer's entrails onto the paved walkway. The hand let go of Oran's throat, letting the Altmer drop briefly, then seized his hair. The last thing Feruren Oran saw before his throat was cut was his guts laying in a pile, his own feet bracketed by a pair of much larger feet wearing soft soled leather boots.  
The assassin let the body fall to the ground and wiped the blade clean on his sleeve before sheathing it. A bystander had run off screaming his head off, but strangely, this didn't bother him. He could hear the Ordinators coming, but he felt no fear, no concern. He almost wanted to welcome them. He knew this was coming and he was prepared for it. Less than a minute later, half a dozen Ordinators surrounded him, their blades drawn, all them certainly hoping he'd give them a reason to run him through. Behind his shrouding, the assassin allowed himself a grin. They were just going to have to get used to disappointment.  
"You have murdered a man in cold blood, on the streets of holy Vivec no less," growled one of the Ordinators, doubtlessly the squad leader. "You will be taken to the Ministry of Truth, where you will be held until your punishment is decided."  
"No, captain," the assassin rumbled, "you will not be taking me to the Ministry of Truth, nor will you be executing me here on this spot." He held one hand up, a thin scroll with a blood red seal sticking out of his fist. The lead Ordinator reached up and took the scroll, then broke the seal and read the contents by torchlight. After reading it twice, the Ordinator sheathed his sword, then ordered his comrades to do the same.  
"We shall present this to our superiors, along with the body. You are free to go."  
The assassin bowed, then casually walked away. One of the newer Ordinators came up to his leader, pulling his helm off to show his displeasure.  
"He just butchered this man!" snarled the Ordinator. "And you let him walk away? Why in the name of blessed Almsivi would you do that?!"  
The lead Ordinator also removed his helmet and passed the scroll over to his subordinate. "Read it. And if you still don't understand, that is something we will discuss later."  
Even after reading it a half dozen times, the younger Ordinator still didn't understand.  
* * *  
Once inside the safety of the enclave, Kharag removed the shrouding from his face, the slightly porcine features of his orcish heritage making the grin of satisfaction on his face seem a bit vicious to the casual bystander. He walked with ease, his large frame graceful and efficient in its carriage, gliding past others in the halls without even coming close to touching them. As he walked, others nodded or smiled at him. They knew what he'd gone through, and they showed him that he had earned their respect. Since most of his comrades were Dunmer, their respect was especially important to him. Orcs and Dunmer had, for millenia, been bitter enemies. Even the Daedra Lords Malacath and Azura pitted the two races against each other, or had in the past. Kharag just hoped that his master would be pleased that he'd successfully completed his mission, and his initiation.  
Stepping into the dormitory area, Kharag moved over towards his master's chamber and smacked the wall twice with the palm of his hand, the closest thing to knocking since there were no doors, only curtains. A middle-aged Dunmer poked his head through the curtain.  
"You've returned. And in record time, as well. Is it done?"  
"Yes, my master," rumbled Kharag with a grin.  
"Come inside, and we shall talk." The Dunmer parted the curtain and gestured for Kharag to take a seat inside. Kharag settled himself, idly noting that neither seat sat with its back to the doorway. Hlaalu reached into a pocket of his robe and withdrew a simple black headband.  
"Having carried your orders with perfection, and having apprenticed to me for a period of five years, it is my unequalled pleasure to recognize you as a member of the Morag Tong and servant of Mephala's will." He proferred the headband to Kharag, who took it and wrapped it firmly around his head. "Now, Kharag, we must talk about your place in the Tong, and what must be done for our future." Here, Hlaalu paused to pour two cups of hot tea. As Kharag lifted the cup to his lips, he smelled the aroma of comberry and bittergreen leaf. The berry's acidity would neutralize the bittergreen's alkaloid poisons quite effectively. This he'd learned the hard way, as was proper.  
Hlaalu looked at the orc with a mixture of pride and concern. All of his cousins had come to despise him, even though he led a force that had survived since before the coming of the Tribunal. But to apprentice an orc, to consider him as a son, that was almost blasphemy, and his cousin Orvas Dren had often said as much. But then again, Eno and Orvas had been grinding against each other for the better part of fifty years, so it didn't look like they'd be calling a truce anytime soon.  
"Kharag, while it pleases me that you are now a full fledged operative, I only wish that it had happened at a better time. We walk in uncertain times. The ash storms from Red Mountain are getting stronger and reaching farther. There are rumors that there is trouble back in the Imperial City. More and more Buoyant Armigers make the trek to Ghostgate and are not heard from again." Hlaalu sighed softly. "Most disturbingly of all, there are indications that the Ghostfence is beginning to fail, that corprus-bearing beasts are finding holes and escaping through them. The Ordinators would have my head for speaking that in public, but here, we may speak safely. Though we must still speak softly."  
"I understand, master. But I do not understand why the dealings of Imperials back in their capital has any effect on us. Nor do I understand why dead Buoyant Armigers and dying animals are in any way related to us."  
"Because all of us serve our gods. Uriel Septim is distantly descended from their god Tiber Septim. The Buoyant Armigers serve Lord Vivec. And we, of course, serve Black Hands herself. Of those three, I think we stand the best chance of survival, but not before we receive Mephala's favor."  
Kharag's great left eyebrow lifted slightly. "But do we not incur Her favor when we perform our duties to Her?"  
"We do, my son, we do. But that favor is brief. It is fleeting. No, Kharag, if we are to weather the storm I believe is coming for us, we must gain the sort of favor that will keep us in Her fickle heart for a very long time. We must show we are Her most devoted children, and there are only two things that I can think of that will gain such favor. One is the destruction of the Dark Brotherhood, which would greatly please the bloodlust of Black Hands. The other is more subtle and its effects less obvious, as is befitting our patron Mephala.  
"According to legend, the Daedra Lord Sanguine created for Mephala an array of wondrous items, each with their own unique properties. Collectively, these items were known as the Threads of the Webspinner. Mephala, for her own reasons, gifted these items to us. For many centuries, we took good care of these items, and many were slain with their assistance. During the Age of Chaos in the Second Era, virtually all of these items were lost in battle or stolen by our enemies. To the Dark Brotherhood, these items are merely interesting, perhaps thought of as charmed or lucky. Yet it is also possible that there may be a few among the Brotherhood who recognize the true nature of the artifacts, and if they do, then there is nothing to stop them from attempting to gather up all the Threads and turn them against us. That is why we must stop them."  
"And we will stop them, my master," Kharag stated in a flat tone.  
"No, my son. You will stop them. While you are still a member of our order, and you must still perform your duties to Mephala, I am charging you with the task of recovering the Threads of the Webspinner from our enemies, so that we may rededicate them to Black Hands and earn her unending favor." Eno Hlaalu leaned over and locked his eyes on Kharag. "I cannot give this task to anyone else, Kharag, for there is no one else that I trust to carry it out. In ages past, assassins have tipped the scales in a war. Now, it is we who are in the war, a war among assassins, and in order to tip the balance, we must have a warrior. That is where you will serve us best. Your cover identity in the Fighter's Guild serves you well, and your time in the Deathshead Legion has been most useful." Hlaalu's voice dropped slightly. "My son, I must impress upon you the great danger I am putting you in by giving you this task. Because there are no writs or bounties on any of the members of the Dark Brotherhood, to slay them is to be branded a murderer by the constabulary. You must call upon your skills as an assassin to avoid capture. And you must call upon your skills as a warrior to avoid defeat. Accomplish this, and your place in the Sanctuary will be assured."  
Kharag lowered his head slightly, pondering what he'd just been told. Surely, this would be the most challenging assignment that any member of the Morag Tong had ever been given. And the most important that he could recall. By the word of the Grandmaster, if Kharag succeeded he would have a place on the Sanctuary Isle, a place far to the east of Akavir, where members of the Morag Tong who had grown too high profile were sent to live out the rest of their days in blissful retirement. What else could he say?  
"I will succeed, father."  
"Very good. Now, I suggest you take a few days to lay low. Then begin your preparations. I will see if I cannot discover a lead for you to begin your search with." Hlaalu stood up and smiled at Kharag. "I am very proud of you, my son. Now, go forth, and bring honor to yourself and the Morag Tong."  
Kharag stood and gave Hlaalu a gentle bearhug, then bowed and took his leave. As he headed towards the exit of the enclave, he felt a light touch on his arm. Glancing to his left, Kharag saw the masked visage of the Tong's oldest living operative, Taros Dral.  
If one believed the stories, Taros Dral had slain well over a thousand men and women in Mephala's name, and there was not a single living being in the world that had seen his face. Some whispered he'd even killed his own parents at one point or another just to cover his tracks. But for whatever reason, Taros was considered to be the very best the Morag Tong could field, and a zealous follower of Mephala. Around the enclave, he was the closest thing to a priest that could be found, as he always held some nugget of wisdom that he'd gleaned from his service to the goddess. Perhaps the old assassin had come to gift Kharag with one last nugget before he left.  
"Kharag, I understand that you have been fully initiated into the Morag Tong this night."  
"That is correct, Taros."  
Taros leaned in slightly. "How would you like to earn a bit more of Mephala's favor than the average novice?"  
"What do you mean?"  
"There is a sensitive matter that has reached my ears from the lips of Black Hands Herself, and I feel that it is something you are eminently suited towards. But I will speak no more of it here. Not unless you are willing to undertake the matter."  
Furrowing his brow, Kharag thought hard. He was supposed to be laying low. Doing any work in the name of Mephala meant blood was going to be shed somewhere. Still, given the nature of his quest, it certainly could not hurt to try and gain minor favor with the goddess now in preparation for the greater favor to come.  
"I am willing to undertake the matter. What is it that Mephala wills?"  
"It's quite simple, actually. Mephala does not ask much of Her followers. She simply asks that we perform our executions with honor and that we do so according to Her tenets, which have been set down since before the First Age. There is, in Balmora, an operative named Balyn Omarel. He does not execute with honor. He has abandoned the tenets. He openly flaunts his position as an assassin. And it is Mephala's will that this embarassment be removed in precisely the manner that the fool should have been operating under the entire time. Mephala feels that Balyn Omarel must be taught, as all children are taught, the hard way. You will execute him with all of the silence and subtlety befitting a true assassin of the Morag Tong." Taros pressed a small leather pouch into Kharag's great hand. "Inside this pouch are bittergreen petals that have been treated with a special toxin. It activates when exposed to great heat, greater than the heat of your hand or mine. Raw flame will create a vapor that is odorless, but vapors dissipate quickly. It would be better to slip it into some sort of food or drink, a stew perhaps, or a cup of tea. You have only to introduce the poisoned leaves successfully and return to me. Mephala will tell me whether you have succeeded in slaying Omarel or not. If Omarel is dead by the time you return, Mephala will have a great reward prepared, and you will be marked forever as one who holds a special place in Her fickle heart."  
"I will succeed," Kharag stated simply. 


	5. Chapter 4: Balmora

[Chapter 4 - Balmora]  
  
Averren seethed in the early morning light. In retrospect, it was perhaps very foolish of him to stop and chat up somebody standing by the side of the road. But being new, and wishing to make sure he was taking the right road, Averren had stopped to ask for directions. Unfortunately, he'd had the poor luck to ask Nels Llendo. He was a little more jovial, a little more outgoing than the average taciturn Dunmer. But when Nels casually demanded fifty drakes, Averren realized that he'd been suckered in by a highwayman. He vaguely toyed with the idea of resisting, but the glass daggers on Llendo's belt dissuaded him. Anybody who carried such lightweight and elegant weapons, and hadn't drawn them yet, probably knew how to use them very well. A pretender would have drawn first, then demanded the money. An amateur wouldn't have bothered demanding. Averren knew the professional type very well, the sort of knife fighter who would draw and strike in the same motion, with lethal results.  
Fifty drakes was a good chunk of his nest egg, but it was hardly worth his life. Grumbling, Averren handed over the money. Llendo smiled and bowed slightly.  
"A thousand blessings to you, serjo. I shant forget this, and should you ever find yourself in Pelgiad, do stop by the Halfway Tavern and we'll have a drink together." Llendo began walking backwards over a small hill and disappeared, still smiling at Averren. It struck Averren as odd that a bandit should be so . . .engaging as that. He decided that he would avoid Pelgiad today, but someday soon, he might just have to get those fifty drakes back.  
The road north to Balmora was long and winding, but well shaded in spots. Averren spent an hour or so lounging under a large tree just north of Pelgiad, munching on trail rations and sipping water from a nearby spring, consulting the directions that Elone had so nicely given him. It was still a long hike up the road, but he was guessing that he'd make it to Balmora by late afternoon or early evening at the latest. He considered taking a nap after his meal, but decided better of it. After all, he'd already met one highwayman on the road. The next one might not be so polite as Nels Llendo.  
Later in the afternoon, Averren found himself at a crossroads. He'd come up from the south, so that way was out. The signpost indicated Balmora was to the west, while Lake Amaya was east. There was a path running to the north, but it was curiously unlabelled. Since he had errands to run, Averren turned west, going through a narrow pass dominated by a pair of stony spires flanking the road on each side. The change in terrain was stark and almost immediate before he'd even gone a third of the way through the pass. Well packed dirt gave way to hard stone that still looked rough and coarse, though Averren suspected it had been travelled over and over again for many centuries. Through the other end of the gap, Averren could see what looked to be a narrow canyon with steep basalt walls, a blackened scar on the land that also appeared to serve as part of the road to Balmora. Averren descended the steep path into the canyon, a hand on his saber hilt in case of trouble from the local wildlife, or the local banditry.  
Just before sundown, Averren stood at the archway that served as the main gate for Balmora. As he stepped through the arch, he gazed on the buildings, the high walled balconies overlooking the river, the tall narrow towers and buttressed arches. The architecture reminded him of the Imperial City, but it seemed to have been given a Dunmer flair. He walked along the inside of the wall that ran the width of the city, wondering where he ought to begin his search. Standing about idly for a few minutes, he saw a few Dunmer walking in and out of a building that Averren guessed was a tavern, given the slightly wobbly stride the exiting patrons were displaying. He began to move towards the tavern when he felt a hand gripping his arm tightly. He turned to look squarely at an Argonian, the eyes bright and reflecting a hint of fear.  
"You do not want to enter that place, outlander," warned the Argonian in its hissing sibilant voice. "It is not safe."  
"What do you mean?" asked Averren.  
"Camonna Tong," the Argonian spat. "They hate outlanders, all outlanders, even Dunmer outlanders. They will kill you if they can."  
"Who are they?"  
"Criminals. Thieves and murderers, smugglers, all Dunmer." The Argonian squeezed Averren's arm slightly. "Please, friend. You have travelled a long way, I can tell. It would be very sad to have your throat cut after surviving the road."  
Averren considered the situation, then nodded. "All right, then. If I was an outlander, where would I go to find out about other outlanders in town?"  
"Ahhh, South Wall. The South Wall cornerclub. Across the river. Southmost bridge. Cross straight, you cannot miss it."  
"My thanks to you," smiled Averren.  
"You are most welcome. And welcome to Balmora."  
Averren began to head towards the bridge the Argonian indicated, thinking himself very fortunate to have met the Argonian, when he bumped into a man in a black cloak. At least, he thought it was a man. The hood was very deep and there was no good way to tell who or what exactly was underneath. The cloaked figure seemed to clear his throat, then glanced down. Averren looked down as well, seeing a small leather pouch laying on the ground. Glancing back up, Averren knelt down, picked up the pouch, then handed it to the cloaked figure.  
"Sorry about that, serjo," apologized Averren.  
"It is quite all right," rumbled the cloaked figure. "I was careless. Good day to you." He began walking up the street along the river. Averren shrugged and crossed over the bridge.  
  
* * *  
  
Kharag stepped into the Eight Plates tavern, shaking slightly. He needed a drink to soothe his nerves. He'd never seen that Dunmer coming down the street, and likely the same was true for the Dunmer. Could Mephala be testing him, meddling in Her own plots, just to make his task more amusing for Her? It did not seem unlikely, and it would be most unfair. But then again, who was he to argue with the whims of a goddess?  
Stepping up to the bar, Kharag ordered a mug of shein, laying two drakes on the bar. The barmaid looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and disdain, but handed him the mug. He retired to a corner of the bar, sipping his drink slowly, thinking. Dumb luck. Had to be. The thought did not cheer him.  
"Evening, Balyn!" called out the barmaid.  
Lifting his eyes without moving his head, Kharag observed Balyn Omarel entering the Eight Plates. So this was the traitor, the murderer, the indiscreet assassin that threatened the Morag Tong. Kharag bit back a growl. He had to remain calm and focused. For the Tong, and for himself. This was a task handed to him by Black Hands Herself. Failure was not an option.  
"Hai!" snapped a Dunmer, coming over to Kharag's table. "Why do you wear your hood up inside? Haven't you got any manners, s'wit?"  
"I don't think you want me to remove my hood," replied Kharag, making his voice shaky and soft. "I was out hunting and was infected with helljoint. Rat bit me on my hand when I digging up a wild ash yam. That's why I have the gloves and the cloak. Wouldn't want to be passing it around." The approaching Dunmer paused, uncertain of what to do. Kharag coughed twice, making the Dunmer jump slightly. The other patrons of the room turned to the scene, though the looks Kharag was getting were becoming increasingly hostile.  
Standing up slowly, the orc began to shamble towards the Dunmer who'd challenged him, his voice still shaking and soft. "Please. Pity a poor hunter who cannot make the donation needed by the Temple for healing of this dreaded affliction."  
The Dunmer's eyes were wide with fear, a hand digging furiously into a coin purse, throwing drakes on the floor. "Take them! Take them all! Just don't touch me, you blighted fetcher!"  
Kharag made a point of slowly gathering up the coins, then shambled out of the Eight Plates with several sets of hostile eyes tracking him. He was probably not going to be welcome back in here for a while, so it was best to make an exit that convinced them to leave him alone. Once he was out of the Eight Plates, he began to make his way across the river, keeping a careful eye out. As he came close to the South Wall cornerclub, he saw the Dunmer he'd bumped into earlier coming out and trotting up the stairs to the terrace above. What was it about that man? Admittedly, Balmora wasn't the biggest city on Vvardenfell, but seeing him twice in less than an hour was disconcerting. Cautiously, Kharag trailed the Dunmer to the end of the street, hiding in the shadows of a stoop, watching him stand outside a door of a small house and knocking. An old Cyrodiilic man cracked the door open, then ushered him inside.  
Kharag consulted the small map he'd been given. Pondering his current location for a moment, he realized that the small house the Dunmer had stepped in to sat over the house of Balyn Omarel. Walking over to the edge of the terrace, he looked down and saw a trapdoor set into the otherwise flat roof of the house. That had to be Omarel's house. The orc slipped steathily over the side of the terrace and down onto Omarel's roof, testing the trap door. Unlocked. Careless of him. Which, of course, was why Kharag was there to begin with.  
There was no telling how long Balyn would be at the Eight Plates, which meant Kharag had no time to inspect the house closely. A cursory glance about the place gave Kharag the perfect place to perform his mission. A small stew kettle sat over an open cooking hearth, the fire make the contents give off a delicious smell. Feeling slightly sorry for not being able to taste what would be Omarel's final meal, Kharag pulled out the pouch and dumped the bittergreen leaves into the stew, then stirred the pot with a spoon to hide them. Popping the lid back on, Kharag took the spoon with him. Omarel probably wouldn't miss it, and very soon he wouldn't have much use for it.  
After leaving Omarel's house through the trap door, Kharag slipped back into a shadowed alley, changed clothes, then walked back across the river and caught the last silt strider out of Balmora bound for Vivec. He slept in the passenger compartment of the insectoid without any other travellers around to bother him.  
  
* * *  
  
When Averren stepped into the South Wall cornerclub, he didn't entirely know what to expect. It was certainly as dimly lit as any tavern he'd been in before his incarceration, and the smells of stale spilled spirits weren't too much different from the bar in Arrille's tradehouse in Seyda Neen. But there was a pardoxical air of both relaxation and tension inside, as if some were here after finishing their work and some were here just before commencing their work. It took a moment for Averren to recognize the last time he'd been in such a place, where he'd felt such an atmosphere. The South Wall was nothing less than a thieves' den. And being an outsider, Averren knew he would have to be very careful who he talked to and what he talked about. The thing about places like this were that they had legitimate business conducted daily. Beds rented, drinks and meals served, entertainers playing, and that made it a place where information could be posted to the masses. Whether the authorities knew that it was a front for criminal activity was a matter of conjecture.  
He settled on a young Breton woman standing off by herself, glancing at the notices placed on the commons board by the authorities. Clearing his throat gently, Averren asked, "Excuse me, but I'm looking for somebody here in town."  
The Breton glanced back over her shoulder for a moment. "That's nice," she replied, ignoring him.  
"I really could use some help." Averren tried smiling pleasantly.  
"I'm sure you could."  
"If you're unable to help me find who I'm looking for, perhaps you know somebody who can."  
She turned to look at him. "You are a persistent fetcher, aren't you?"  
"It's probably my only redeeming quality."  
"All right," she replied with a chuckle. "I'm Sottilde. And while I may not be able to help you find your friend, Bacola might. He's the publican around here, knows just about everybody in Balmora."  
"And where might I find him?"  
"Down in the common room, I imagine. He's usually there, chatting up the patrons, buying old regulars a drink now and again. Good man, really."  
"My thanks to you, Sottilde." Averren made a low bow. Sottilde blushed slightly.  
"Stop that!" she laughed. "Off with you."  
Averren grinned at her and walked down the hall, descending the stairs into the common room of the cornerclub. A bard sat picking out a lively tune in one corner, while patrons chatted and drank, barmaids sweeping in and out to refresh emptied tankards, the air charged with energy. In the middle of it stood a large Cyrodiilic man, smiling broadly, clapping patrons on the back, moving from table to table, checking to make sure everybody was happy. As he passed by Averren, the smile grew even wider.  
"Well, now! A new face in the South Wall! What can Bacola Closcius do for you, my Dunmer friend?"  
"I'm trying to find somebody, and Sottilde upstairs said you might be able to help me."  
"A fine lass, she is, but my gifts are modest. I know many people, and all of them are worth knowing, but even I don't know everybody in Balmora. Test me, Dunmer, surprise me and ask for a name that I do not know."  
"I'm looking for a man named Caius Cosades."  
The jovial smile vanished from Bacola's face in the blink of an eye, replaced by a chilly, probing gaze. "Now why in the world," the publican asked in a low harsh voice, "would you be looking for that old sugar-tooth?"  
"I'm a courier, hired out of Seyda Neen. I was supposed to deliver a package to him, but I wasn't told where to find him exactly. The only thing that they told me was that he lived in Balmora." Averren felt his heart starting to race. The music and merriment continued on without pause, but it was as if he and the publican were cut off from the rest of the world. Closcius scrutinized him, looking for any hint of deceit. When he was satisfied that Averren at least appeared to be telling the truth, the visage warmed up somewhat, but not at the level it had been at moments earlier.  
"I think you know more than you're telling me, but whether it has any direct bearing on your task, I cannot tell. I do know Caius Cosades. If you ask around here, most folks will tell you the same story: Caius is a nice old gent, but he hits the sugar a little hard sometimes. If you ask me, there's more to that old man than meets the eye, but what it is exactly, I cannot say. If you say you were hired to deliver a package to him, then I believe you. You can find him in a bed-and-basket on the upper terrace. Just go out the front door, take the stairs on your right to the terrace, then left. House at the end of the street." Closcius turned away and greeted another patron with renewed enthusiasm.  
Thinking himself exceedingly lucky for avoiding a knife in the belly or an all-out bar brawl, Averren quickly went up the stairs and exited the South Wall. Trotting up the stairs to the terrace, Averren began to wonder for the first time just what exactly he'd gotten himself into. The way Closcius had reacted to the name of Caius Cosades suggested that Cosades had some sort of dangerous quality about him, and Closcius himself had said there was more to the man than met the eye. Had the Emperor sent Averren into a trap of some sort, releasing him into Morrowind to be killed at the hands of a master assassin? It wouldn't be the first time that somebody had been given a package with a note that read "Kill the bearer of this message." But a small part of Averren's mind chided him, telling him that such a plot was just too grandiose compared to his station in life. There might be a simpler explanation, but he was just going to have to wait and see what that was.  
As he reached the house at the end of the street, Averren felt his gut tightening slightly. He wanted to run. He wanted desperately to run, anywhere, just to avoid delivering this package. Standing at the door step, Averren struggled with himself momentarily. He had nowhere to run to, nobody to call on, and no means of leaving this place. All he had to do was deliver the package, go back to the South Wall, get a room for a couple nights, and think his way out of this. Averren knocked on the door lightly.  
The door opened partially, and an old Cyrodiilic man with a fringe of snowy hair peered out at him with one bloodshot eye. "Who's there?"  
"I'm a courier. I'm looking for a man named Caius Cosades."  
"What do you want with Caius Cosades?" challenged the old man.  
"I have a package here, given to me by Sellus Gravius of the Legion, with orders to deliver this package to Caius Cosades and only him. The package is sealed and carries the signet of the Emperor."  
Opening the door further, the old man waved Averren in. "Please come in, quickly."  
Averren didn't need to be told twice, and he slipped into the small house. The accomodations were sparse but comfortable: a sturdy bed, a plain table and a small shelf that held some simple plates, a couple of plain chairs, another small shelf near the foot of the bed that held some books, and a bench along one wall with a strongbox underneath it. Half- tucked under the bed sat an ornate brass pipe, the kind used in smoking various tobaccos and other less legal inhalants.  
"All right. You said you have a package for Caius Cosades, and I am he."  
Averren unslung his pack and opened it, digging in to the bottom and pulling out the package, the seal still intact. He handed the package to Cosades without a word. The old man broke the seal with his thumbnail, pulling out a sheaf of documents, looking them over momentarily then looking at Averren.  
"Sit down, lad. You standing around makes me nervous. Sit, have a bite to eat. Looks like you haven't had a decent sit-down meal all day. If you look in the corner by the table, there's a coolbox. Not as nice as a proper pantry, I suppose, but it serves me well enough." Cosades returned his attention to the documents, scanning them intently.  
With a shrug, Averren sat down and looked in the coolbox. There appeared to be plenty of food, and he was feeling hungry. Rummaging around, Averren made himself a pair of sandwiches, stuffed with a dark yellow cheese and some sort of light meat. The taste was delicious, the sharpness of the cheese mixing with a sweet flavor that could only have come from the meat. The two sandwiches were wolfed down in short order and Averren was busy fixing himself a third when Cosades lifted his head.  
"Feeling better?"  
"Much," replied Averren around a mouthful of sandwich. Swallowing the bite, he continued, "My thanks to you, serjo. Your hospitality is excellent and much appreciated."  
The old man gave Averren a crooked grin. "Well, I have understood that it's always a good policy to feed one's apprentice well."  
Averren's eyes widened in shock. "Ap-apprentice?" he stammered.  
"Yes, according to these documents, you are to be my apprentice." The old man stood and looked down at Averren. "Allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Caius Cosades, an operative in the Imperial Intelligence Service, spymaster for the province of Morrowind, resident-in- charge of Vvardenfell district, and your new master." Cosades took the chair opposite Averren and locked his eyes on him. "You didn't read those documents, did you?"  
"No, I didn't. The thought never occurred to me."  
"Hmmm," replied Cosades. "Which tells me that you can be trusted to follow simple orders. Bigger ones, we'll have to find out about later. Of course, even if you had opened those papers, they would have been unreadable to you, since they were encoded. You will learn that code, in time, along with other things. But to sum up, the Emperor has placed you into my service as a new apprentice, to train you and prepare you for service as a member of the Blades."  
"You mean I'm a spy now?" replied Averren thickly, the sandwich in his hand forgotten.  
"Not yet," Cosades replied with a growl, "but you will be soon enough." 


	6. Chapter 5: Blades

[Chapter 5 – Blades]  
  
Averren hit the mat with a dull thud, with Caius once again clucking his disapproval.  
"That reverse has been catching you by surprise each and every time, lad. I'd think after the third or fourth throw, you'd be ready for it."  
"Guess I'm not as good with my fists as I am with a blade," Averren chuckled as he got up off the floor, the smile on his face disappearing as he met Caius' cold stare.  
"And what makes you think you're going to be using a blade at all?"  
This gave Averren pause. While he was thinking, Caius gestured for him to sit down.  
"Listen well, apprentice, because this is an important lesson. Probably the most important lesson you will learn under my tutelage, or from any of the other operatives here in Vvardenfell." When Averren was seated, Caius continued. "Now, you may have it in your head that as servants of the Emperor's will, being his eyes and ears also suggests that we are his hands and teeth. I will not deny that, from time to time, a Blade has had to perform the duties of an Imperial assassin. But that is not something that we do very often, and it is not something that we undertake lightly. Our primary task is to gather information, analyze it if necessary, and make it clear to the Emperor in a few words whether this is something that affects him or if it is something that can be safely ignored for the time being. You understand that?"  
"Of course," Averren nodded.  
"Good. Now, tell me, how much information can you get out of a dead man?"  
Now, Averren frowned in thought, and not just a little embarrassment. Despite a month of intensive training with Caius and the other Blades situated in Balmora, he had apparently still harbored a few foolish notions. This particular lesson had gone a long way to dispel them.  
"Caius, how long have you been at this? Being a spy, I mean."  
"A long time. Tell me, do you remember Jagar Tharn, the Emperor's battlemage?"  
"Vaguely," admitted Averren. "I seem to recall hearing something about him taking up the position, but I don't remember much else. Why? What did he do?"  
Caius' jaw dropped slightly in surprise. "You were away for a long time, weren't you?" When Averren's brow furrowed in displeasure, the old man continued. "After his betrayal of the Battlespire to Mehrunes Dagon and his Daedra forces, Jagar Tharn secretly kidnapped the Emperor and imprisoned him in an alternate dimension using an artifact called the Staff of Chaos. The incident at the Battlespire happened about thirty years or so back, and then the coup happened a few years after that."  
"But surely there would have been resistance if Tharn appeared sitting on the throne one morning."  
"If anybody had seen Jagar Tharn as himself sitting in that throne, then you are correct, my boy. Unfortunately, Tharn had managed to concoct a means of impersonating the Emperor. I'm sure a master illusionist could tell you how he did it, but the end result is that for a few years, that madman was running the Empire. And he was running it right into the ground. Whatever his magical abilities, the man had no concept of how to rule an empire efficiently, to say nothing of wisely."  
Averren looked closely at Caius. "Did you know? Did you figure out it wasn't the Emperor sitting on the throne?"  
"I suspected," Caius sighed softly. "A lot of us in the Blades suspected. But suspicions, no matter how strong, do not equate to proof. And proof was hard to find. Tharn had covered his tracks well. When comrades of mine looked like they were close to finding one of his loose ends, incidents would begin to happen. I won't say accidents, because they were not accidents. They were planned and well executed assassinations of Blades operatives, and those of us that were associated with the victims often perished shortly thereafter. Our ranks were gutted in a horrifyingly short amount of time, and those of us who stopped looking often found themselves shipped out to hardship postings at the fringes of the Empire. Interestingly enough, somebody did finally beat that bastard Tharn at his own game. Not one of the Blades, though I suspect that they were given a comparatively simple task by a Blade just before being re-assigned. From what I've read and been told, Tharn's defeat and subsequent execution were . . .spectacular."  
"Incredible," said Averren almost breathlessly.  
"To say the least. In any event, when the Emperor was restored to the throne, he liked what I was developing here in Vvardenfell and decided to make it a permanent posting, with me as the local spymaster. Which was fine with me. Probably the only good that came out of that awful time was my coming here. Strange as it is, I fell in love with this place. And though my duty has always been to the Emperor and the Empire, I have always tried to make sure that Morrowind was protected, in everything I did. I've seen just about every corner of the Empire at one point or another. Only Morrowind has had a hold over me, a desire to set myself down and stay here. Don't ask me why. It just does." Caius slapped Averren's shoulder. "Enough resting, apprentice. Let's see if you can avoid that reverse this time."  
  
* * *  
  
A few days later, Averren shambled into Caius' home, his face streaked with dirt and bits of feathers stuck in his hair. The Dunmer's visage set the old spymaster in stitches.  
"Are you going to tell me or do I get to injure myself guessing?" Caius laughed uncontrollably.  
"When you told me to join the Fighter's Guild as a way to build up my cover identity, you never told me that I'd be doing the scut work." Averren set his saber into a corner and began stripping his armor off, groaning in disgust as he discovered various exotic stains splashed over the chitin. "For the last month, I've been cleaning up, sweeping out, and doing every menial chore that Fire-eye can think up. And when she finally deigns to give me an assignment that actually pays worth a damn, she sends me off to act as pest control." Flopping down in a chair, Averren began to rub his feet.  
"I never said it would be glorious, Averren. Least not to start. And don't act so surprised. On many occasions, the Fighter's Guild has been used for unglamorous jobs like guar herding and delivery of monthly booze rations to miners." Caius stood up to open a small box sitting on a shelf near the foot of the bed. "Believe me, killing vermin is considered to be a very casual assignment by some members of the Fighter's Guild. The worst that could happen is you have to stop by the Temple to obtain medicines and some light bandaging. There are things out around here that will make you look back fondly on today."  
"Don't bet on it," snapped Averren. "Have you ever tried killing rats with feathers flying everywhere?"  
"Can't say that I have. But then again, I've never slept with a royal concubine either. So either way, I don't know what I'm missing."  
Averren sighed as he leaned back in the chair. "Caius, what am I doing here? I know I'm supposed to be your apprentice, and you've been teaching me more in the last month than I thought I could ever learn. And the other Blades have been a real help, Nine-Toes and Rithleen especially. But I feel . . .trapped. Like I should be out there doing something."  
"You feel that you're ready to do something?"  
"Something better than sweeping up and being a houseboy to Eydis Fire- eye, to be sure."  
Caius turned and gave Averren a hard stare. "If you're looking for glory, then you can leave and make your own way in the world. See how long you can last on charity. But if you're looking to make a fresh start, Averren, then sit down and shut up."  
The clipped tone in the old man's voice kept Averren rooted to his seat. Taking a deep breath, Averren tried again. "Why was I the one to get a fresh start? Why me? Why not some other person?"  
"I wish I could tell you, Averren, but such knowledge is not afforded to the likes of us. You think I wanted to take in a Dunmer who got himself dumped here without any explanation? By the Divines, I most certainly did not plan on it. But here you are, and the instructions from the Emperor were explicit. You don't see me bitching about it. I'm doing my duty as handed to me by my Emperor and I will damned well discharge that duty. And I have given you your duty, and you will discharge it, or I will know the reason why!" Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Caius' flinty gaze softened. "And your duty right now seems to be coinciding with those happy feet of yours. I received word this morning after you left that there are vague rumblings of discontent from the Legion garrison stationed in the town of Gnisis. Nothing solid that we can pin down to individuals, yet. But this is not something that we can reasonably ignore, according to my agent up north. I can't send anybody else here from Balmora, and our other agents in place can't leave without extensive preparations and good cover stories."  
"Which just leaves me," stated Averren, his tongue suddenly going dry. His foster mother had always warned him to be careful what he wished for, and it suddenly came back to him with a vengeance.  
"Correct. Believe me, the timing on this is positively vicious. But right now, you're the most mobile of our agents. You've got no ties to anywhere except this house, and I can be out of here in less than a day if need be. I won't lie to you, Averren. If this is legitimate, then you are going to have to maintain your cover identity at all times. To keep things simple, Elone has arranged for a set of papers identifying you as Averren Lirondi, which will be arriving in Ald'Ruhn in the next day or so. There's a Bosmer named Gildan there. She'll give you the papers while you're waiting for the silt strider to Gnisis. Once you are in Gnisis, you will join up with the Deathshead Legion, as a common recruit. You will behave as if you were any other soldier in the Legion. Unless you receive orders from me, you will do precisely as you are told by your superiors. If they say jump, you ask how high. They say 'kill that man,' you ask them fast or slow. Hopefully, this will turn out to be nothing. In a few weeks, you'll come back on reserve status with the Legion and resume your training around here."  
"I'm otherwise on my own, then?" asked Averren softly, almost nervously.  
"Yes. Since I can't be there to direct your every movement, I'm trusting you to exercise good judgment and caution. Remember what you've been taught, and consider your actions. If an opponent looks like they might be a useful source of information, try to keep him alive, but not at the cost of your own life."  
"Look twice, step once. Just like Nine-Toes said."  
Caius clapped a hand on Averren's shoulder and smiled. "For an Argonian, he has a way with words."  
  
* * *  
  
Kharag sat waiting in Eno Hlaalu's chambers, idly turning a ring over in his hand, inspecting the delicate Daedric inscription on the inside of the band. Taros Dral had met Kharag at the door to the enclave as soon as the orc had returned, and Kharag had performed the small ceremony at the altar dedicated to Mephala. He heard Black Hands whisper in his ear as a ring appeared on his finger, promising that she would keep an eye on him. Part of him thought that such a promise would be a decidedly mixed blessing. The ring was enchanted, that much he knew, and it seemed to generate some sort of illusion that obscured him from direct sight. It wasn't much, but in shadowy halls, it would work perfectly.  
Eno Hlaalu stepped into the chambers and smiled wolfishly at Kharag. "My informants have given me our first lead on the Threads. I was actually quite surprised that the Dark Brotherhood was able to conceal the information so well. My original expectation was a lead within a week of your initiation, but a month is both good and bad. Good, because it means our lines of information are still functioning. Bad, because the information has taken so long to uncover.  
"You first objective is very distant, in the fishing village of Khuul. All I have is a name, Shotherra, a Khajiit from what I have been informed. And I must remind you, my son, that you must exercise extreme discretion in this endeavor."  
"Of course, father."  
Sitting down, Hlaalu poured two small glass of mazte and handed one to Kharag. "Have you given consideration as to how you might get up there and back?"  
"Actually, by a stroke of luck, I received notice just yesterday that I am to report to a Legion outpost and perform my compulsory service as a reserve member of the Legion. I had thought to simply go over to Ebonheart and spend my days guarding a gate. But with this information, I can perform my term of service in Gnisis, and attempt to gain the artifact almost at leisure." Kharag sipped carefully. "Almost. I understand that there are other artifacts to be had, and time is of the essence. But this one has come up at a truly opportune time."  
"You have your belongings packed for the journey?" Hlaalu asked gently.  
"Yes. They have been since yesterday. Strange, but something told me that I needed to wait a day before I left for my service. Not to be presumptive, but I'd almost think it was Mephala's will."  
Hlaalu chuckled. "Just remember that when things work against you, that may also be Mephala's will, and you must take the bad breaks along with the good."  
"Always, father." Kharag smiled broadly, slipping the ring on his finger. "And do take care of yourself. I wouldn't want to come back and find out you've been pacing the floor without eating or sleeping."  
Hlaalu started ever so slightly. Could Kharag really see the fear that gripped his heart? Could he know what kept the old elf awake at night since deciding to recover the Threads? Perhaps, in a blind sort of way. He didn't think Kharag would ever know how much he'd come to love his adopted son. Eno Hlaalu held a position of great responsibility, and he had no qualms about sending people to their deaths. Dozens of members of the Morag Tong had died attempting to execute their writs, many more had died fighting the Dark Brotherhood, and Hlaalu would sooner put his head in a kagouti's maw than stop performing those duties.  
The two assassins stood up, smiling at each other. Then Hlaalu unexpectedly threw his arms around Kharag, hugging him tightly.  
"Be careful, son," he murmured. 


	7. Chapter 6: Gnisis

[Chapter 6 – Gnisis]  
  
In some ways, describing Gnisis as a town was an act of generosity that Averren would only have applied to Seyda Neen a month or so earlier. While somewhat larger than the small port town, Gnisis shared the same sense of unfulfilled capacity, the feeling that it could be a lot bigger if it had a good reason. As it was, there were only three things going for Gnisis. The eggmine, the Temple, and the Legion, in that order.  
Averren stepped off the silt strider and slung his knapsack over a shoulder, looking around as he walked across the platform to solid ground. Steep sided hills ringed the town, with a small Tribunal temple sitting roughly in the center of town. Such symbolism was not lost on Averren, who had taken the time during the silt strider ride to study up on the local religious customs. As Caius had told him once, the Temple had a lot of good qualities to it. It stressed faithfulness (not only to the Temple, but to friends and family), piety, compassion, and generosity. Yet it also bred intolerance, zealotry, narrow-mindedness, and blind obedience. The paradox of how such dogma could sustain itself gave Averren a headache.  
If the Temple's position in the town was a symbol, then the Legion fort, such as it was, also proved to be a symbol. From what Averren could see, the Legion's place in town was limited, only a single reinforced wall covering the southeastern corner of the town. The message was clear: outlanders and their laws were to be kept at a distance.  
The only other structure that Averren could make out easily was an old oddly shaped dome with thick green glass windows ringing the top, the dome seeming to be partially set into the rock of the ridge on the north edge of the town. An entrance had to be somewhere around there, but Averren could not make it out from his vantage point. Adjusting the pack on his shoulder, Averren walked towards the Temple. Part of the cover story that he'd given to his fellow passengers aboard the silt strider was that he'd started the Pilgrimages of the Seven Graces, the recreations of the paths and trials that Vivec underwent before the Tribunal came to be. Gnisis was important in the course of the Pilgrimages because it held a sacred artifact of the Tribunal and was used as a jumping off point for the second most dangerous site of the journey, the Pilgrimage of Valor, or "the Ruddy Man" as it was known. The Temple site here was also a point in the Pilgrimages, the Pilgrimage of Justice. A comely young initiate was kind enough to give Averren a spare vial of curative potion against diseases. The actual ritual involved pouring the curative over an altar and reciting the Lesson of Justice as it was described in a book called "The Seven Graces." Other pilgrims had suggested he come with them to the Ruddy Man across the river later, but Averren politely declined.  
Spying a Dunmer in Legion chainmail, Averren came over and inquired where he could join up. The Legionnaire simply jerked his thumb over to the local tradehouse and walked off. Averren stood in the middle of the road, mulling where he should visit first. The necessity of finding out about the discontent in the Legion seemed like it would be more important. But as Caius had told him before he left, he had to maintain his cover story at all costs. Sighing softly, Averren walked over to the temple.  
He stood at the back of a line of pilgrims, waiting as they inched their way through the temple's main chamber, where the shrines of saints such as Lothis and Veloth were usually kept. The line stretched around a corner at the far end, no doubt winding up in what would be the main shrine chamber, the one reserved for the Shrine of the Tribunal. It had been that way in Balmora, and in Ald'Ruhn, and this would probably be no different. Averren pictured the Shrine of the Tribunal in the center of the room, the altar for the pilgrimage probably off to one side. As he waited in line, his mind began to wander. Three gods of the Tribunal. Vivec, who lived in the holy city of the same name here in Vvardenfell. Almalexia, who lived in the capital of Morrowind, once called Mournhold, now called by her name. Sotha Sil, whom nobody had seen since the start of the Second Era at least. It had been Vivec who had declared the island a religious preserve, off limits to all until the last century or so. The First Era, declaring the island a religious preserve because of all the Daedric shrines, a condition of incorporation into the Empire. Daedra, still a part of the Tribunal in the form of the Anticipations and the House of Troubles. Four Daedra Lords making up the House of Troubles. Three making up the Anticipations. Mephala, the patron of the ancient assassin's guild of the Morag Tong. Boethiah, the Daedra Lord of murder. And Azura, Lady of Mysteries . . .  
Averren broke his reverie as he found himself at the mouth of the central chamber, the last pilgrim yet to go. The only other people in the chamber were a single Ordinator and the pilgrim that had been in front of Averren in the line. Surprisingly, the altar stood in the center of the room where the main shrine normally would be. A tall, three sided column with Daedric script along the sides intermixed with ornate carvings depicting the story behind the Lesson of Justice. The pilgrim splashed one of the sides with the curative potion he'd been carrying, then pressed his palms against the side and recited the Lesson of Justice. A bright blue halo of light surrounded the pilgrim for an instant, then was gone, the curative completely evaporated. He walked away from the altar with a look of sublime joy and patted Averren's shoulder happily as he passed by.  
Seeing nobody else behind him, Averren made a slow circuit of the room. Opposite the doorway sat a small stone reliquary on top of a large pedestal. Inside the reliquary was a mask made out of rough stone, facing out into the chamber. A finely inscribed brass plate on the pedestal proclaimed the mask to be the Mask of Vivec, made from an accretion of ash from Red Mountain that formed over Vivec's face as he slept one day. Averren glanced over at the Ordinator, who favored him with a small shake of the head. Nodding, Averren moved up to the altar and pulled out the curative potion, splashing it on the altar as the other pilgrims had done. Placing his hands on the altar, Averren recited the Lesson of Justice.  
His vision took on a slightly bluish tinge as the blessing of the Tribunal was bestowed upon him, a reward for completing this part of the pilgrimage. Yet something didn't feel quite right to Averren. As the other pilgrim had shown, there was supposed to be an element of religious rapture to this moment. There was no denying that Averren felt refreshed and clean, as if no illness or injury could harm him. Underlying this, however, was a faint tingle of. . . decay, as if the blessing had come from a tainted source. At some level, Averren knew that the clean feeling would not last, probably not much more beyond that day. He knew he would probably not feel the healthy sensation in his flesh and bones by tomorrow morning. He suspected he would still feel that small bit of decay for a while yet.  
Blinking his eyes, Averren glanced at the panels containing the images of Vivec and the Lesson of Justice. There was a hairline crack running around the images just inside the frame. Curious, Averren pressed gingerly on one of the panels. All three silently slid down, revealing another mask suspended in mid-air without any visible support, almost exactly like the one that sat on the pedestal. He glanced over at the Ordinator, who gave him a small nod this time. Averren reached in and pressed his fingers to the mask. This time, a brilliant blue corona surrounded him as he heard a voice whispering in his ear. The language was old, yet Averren understood it almost perfectly. He gathered that this was some sort of spell or incantation that he was being taught. As he listened, as the spell seeped into his mind, he thought he heard the voice stammering a little, hesitating before plunging on ahead.  
When the glow faded, Averren pulled his fingers away and walked over to the Ordinator. "What just happened?" he asked a little shakily.  
"You are twice blessed this day, pilgrim," replied the Ordinator, the tone respectful and pleased behind the full faced mask of his helmet. "The blessing of the Lesson of Justice is granted countless times in a day by the will of Almsivi, blessed be the Tribunal. Yet only a few pilgrims ever discover that the Mask of Vivec, the genuine artifact, is hidden within that shrine. It reveals itself only to a select few, and Vivec himself grants the great boon to cure diseases, from the common to almost all of the worst Blights. Truly, you are much blessed."  
"Vivec grants the boon? You mean, that was his voice that I heard?"  
The Ordinator nodded slowly. "Indeed it was. Hopefully, you shall not be stingy with your new gift. Share it with the world, and spread the blessings of the Tribunal to all you may encounter."  
Nodding back, Averren smiled at the Ordinator and left the shrine chamber. Somehow, he felt it would not be wise to tell the zealot that he'd heard a god stuttering.  
  
* * *  
  
Early the next morning, Averren stood in front of General Menelaeus Darius, commanding officer of the Deathshead Legion. Unlike Sellus Gravius, Darius wore his armor, making it very clear to anybody who looked that he was in charge and ready to go at any time. Unfortunately, the sleepy nature of Gnisis suggested that he might be a long time waiting for any sort of action.  
"Averren Lirondi," said Darius slowly as he read from Averren's papers. "You say that you want to be joining the Legion? Why?"  
"General Darius, sir, I've come to join for a few reasons. One is to be of useful service to the Emperor and to the Empire."  
"A strange attitude for a Dunmer. Around here, most Dunmer would love nothing more than to divorce themselves from the Empire."  
"I spent most of my life in the Imperial City as a student. I may have been born here, sir, but I know where my loyalties ultimately lie."  
"You had other reasons for joining, I believe." Darius took a sip of Cyrodillic brandy. "What would they be?"  
"Another of my reasons is that my performance in the Fighter's Guild was insufficient to please my superiors. I felt that by joining the Legion, I could gain valuable experience which I could put to use while on reserve, sir."  
Darius gave a small nod. "Pragmatism. Always handy out here. Any other reasons I should be aware of?"  
"Well, sir, the other garrisons wouldn't have me. They all said to come up here. If I can prove myself here, then I'll be able to get a posting at Fort Moonmoth, so that I can take care of--" Averren almost let out Caius' name, then flowed on, feigning a small cough, "Zurin, my father's old manservant."  
This caused Darius to raise an eyebrow quizzically. "You mean to tell me there is a man who bears the name of the Underking?"  
"A cruel joke on the part of his mother, from what I understand. Dumped him on my father's doorstep in the Imperial City at the tender of age of nine, old enough that his name had stuck in his mind and he couldn't identify himself as anything else."  
"And you take care of this man?"  
"He took care of me very well while I was at my studies. But he's aged badly, and I fear for his health. It seems only right I should take care of him now in the twilight years of his life. This would be a good way for me to earn some small amount of coin to send to him in the small house we rent in Balmora."  
Darius stood up with a small smile. "Loyalty and sense of duty. Serjo Lirondi, I believe we have a billet for you. In fact, I am going to give you your first assignment. After you procure your kit from the quartermaster over by the east gate, you will proceed across the town to the Vabdas farm, and speak with the widow Vabdas. I need you to obtain the deed to her farm by any means necessary.. Her land is vitally important towards the expansion of the fort. If we can mirror the fortifications in place on the east side, Gnisis will be well protected from the landward side."  
"Permission to speak, sir?"  
"Granted, but make it fast."  
Averren cleared his throat slightly. "How long has the widow Vabdas been a widow?"  
"Only a couple of weeks. We found a piece of what might have been her husband's shirt near some alit tracks. The supposition is that he had a little too much to drink, took the wrong turn heading home, and ran into the alit. It doesn't take much imagination to figure out what happened from there."  
"Understood, sir." Averren saluted.  
"Dismissed, recruit."  
As Averren walked out of Darius' office, he accidentally bumped his shoulder into the chest of an orc coming through the same doorway. The orc wore a full Imperial chainmail hauberk and foot soldier's helm. "My apologies," Averren said quickly, not knowing if the orc now ranked higher than him or not.  
"It was my fault," replied the orc agreeably. "I should have shifted over to give you some room."  
Something about the orc's voice made Averren stare quizzically for a moment. "Have we met before?"  
"I don't believe so, recruit."  
Shrugging slightly, Averren extended his hand. "Averren Lirondi."  
"Kharag 'gro' Kremputro," the orc answered, shaking Averren's hand. Behind Kharag's eyes, a spark of mixed surprise and fear lit up. What was this Dunmer doing here in Gnisis?! First Balmora, now here. Either Mephala had it in Her head to play with Kharag, or some larger force was at work. He briefly entertained the idea that Averren Lirondi was an agent for the Dark Brotherhood, but then dismissed it. Those degenerates couldn't stand the thought of wearing an Imperial uniform, even if it meant the furthering of their goals. Yet this Dunmer stood before him with a writ to the quartermaster to issue arms and armor. Apparently, Averren was not an assassin, but Kharag was damned if he knew exactly what the Dunmer really was.  
"Well, I need to be going, sir. Perhaps we'll see each other around."  
Kharag nodded and watched Averren trot up the steps to the main door, then approached Darius' desk, laying out his credentials and saluting.  
"Spearman Kharag 'gro' Kremputro reporting for duty, General," Kharag rumbled.  
Darius picked up the parchment containing Kharag's orders. "You are serving your compulsory service time as a reservist?"  
"That is correct, sir."  
"And you chose Gnisis specifically?"  
"If you'll look, sir, the orders state that I may report to any garrison of my choosing, since there is no pressing need at the present time for any post in particular. I chose Gnisis because it is closer to the action, comparatively speaking."  
A small snort came from Darius. "Seems to be a popular reason to come up here lately."  
"Also, sir, with the large component of orcs here in the Deathshead Legion, I felt I could serve without causing any undue alarm or disconcertion on the part of my superiors."  
This made Darius nod. "Yes, I can see how an orc guarding the main hall in Ebonheart might cause a minor stir in some circles."  
"Additionally, sir," continued Kharag, "it was this or Wolverine Hall. And to be blunt, sir, I want to keep my distance as far as the Telvanni are concerned.  
"Can't say I blame you." Darius scribbled a signature to the orders, then handed Kharag a scroll. "There's not much happening right now, so I'd like to have you act as a courier. Not exciting, to be sure, but a comparatively easy assignment to start, help you get back into the swing of things. I just need you to carry that message to the village hetman in Khuul. This is merely a friendly letter, asking him how things are going and if he needs any assistance from us. I expect a terse and polite reply in the negative, but one never knows. Get moving, spearman."  
"Yes, sir!" It took almost every muscle in Kharag's body to keep from breaking out into a grin.  
  
* * *  
  
A few hours later, Averren found himself at the Vabdas muck farm on the west edge of Gnisis. He wasn't having a civil conversation with the widow Vabdas, however. From his perspective, he was taking fire from her.  
The instant she opened the door, she scurried away. When Averren poked his head in, she flung a small pot at him, the crockery breaking on the lentil above his head. Since then, she'd thrown countless pots, plates, and bowls at the door, trying to make him go away. As far as first assignments went, Averren could not claim to be having much success. The Dunmer widow simply refused to listen to reason. She didn't care that Averren represented the law. She didn't care that the Legion wanted to make her farm the site of their new fortifications. Every logical, reasonable, pleasant sounding argument Averren could think up came back with another piece of pottery.  
"Widow Vabdas!" Averried cried as another pot smashed into the doorframe. "This is really not helpful! I just want to talk!"  
"I'll show you helpful, you Imperial thug!" Vabdas screeched, sending another piece of tableware at the door.  
"Woman's got more crockery than a potter's shop," growled Averren under his breath. "Widow Vabdas, I'm sorry for your loss, but this is really not the proper way to greet an Imperial official!"  
"Improper!" The woman seemed to cackle furiously. "Is it any more proper to steal a murdered man's farm from under the feet of his grieving wife?!"  
Poking his head back in, Averren flinched as a bowl shattered above him. "Did you say your husband was murdered?"  
The question stopped the barrage momentarily. "Yes, I did! I say it because I know it!"  
Averren pushed his head in further. "And how do you know this?"  
"Because I see the ghost of my dead husband in my dreams. He calls out to me, weeping because he's been murdered and his killer still walks free."  
Looking at her hopefully, Averren asked, "Would you like to tell me about it? Catching murderers and dispensing justice is what we in the Legion are supposed to be doing, after all."  
The widow cocked her arm back, but let it drop lamely. "A couple of weeks ago, my husband went out to the eggmine. He often worked there part of the day to help supplement the farm. He was going to go in to sneak out a couple of kwama eggs. We needed food, and there was a merchant who would buy them under the table without asking any questions. Those eggs would have fed us for a day or two by themselves, but the money would have bought food for a month. He went into the mine one day, and he never came out. A few days later, word about the kwama queen contracting a Blight disease came out, and the mine's been effectively cut off ever since."  
"So, how is it you know your husband was murdered?" Averren asked gently.  
"I see him in my dreams. I can hear his voice, crying out to be discovered and avenged, wailing that he can't rest. His ghost calls out to me. But I cannot do anything to bring him relief."  
Averren now stood in front of the widow, his helmet tucked under his arm. "Widow Vabdas, I am going to be blunt with you. What you've told me, I believe it, but I will never be able to convince General Darius of it. Nevertheless, I will try to find your husband's body and bring it back. I will try to prove that he was murdered. And I will try to bring him the rest he calls out for."  
The widow looked at him, hope and disbelief mixing in her carmine eyes. "Why are you doing this?"  
"Because I know how important it is for the truth to come out, in any situation. And because I know just how powerful a dream can be. I will find out the truth in this matter. You have my word." 


	8. Chapter 7: Eggmine

[Chapter 7 – Eggmine]  
  
Kharag fought to keep his nerves calm and collected as he entered the small tradehouse in Khuul. His official task from the Legion had been performed, and a curt "thanks but no thanks" was the answer, exactly as Darius had suspected. Now he had a more important task, and it was going to require his absolute focus if he was going to pull it off.  
At first, Kharag made a great show of taking off his helm and ordering a drink at the bar, such as it was. The other patrons ignored him quickly. Kharag, however, kept close tabs on the room, and on the only Khajiit in the room as well. A female Khajiit. Shotherra.  
As the hours passed, Kharag pretended to get more and more drunk, playing up the stereotypical orc that couldn't hold his liquor. In truth, Kharag had a great capacity for alcohol, a small side benefit of training with the Morag Tong combined with his massive frame. Every couple of rounds, he would shamble to a table that was closer to Shotherra. By his tenth round, Kharag found himself able to sit at an adjoining table and lean over to talk to her quietly.  
"You're in trouble, Khajiit," Kharag rumbled softly, no hint of drunkenness in his voice.  
"And what makes you say that, orc?" Shotherra replied just as softly, her head staying still, eyes never glancing over to him.  
"Because there's a Redoran lord and two witnesses who put you at the scene of a burglary in Ald'Ruhn, right in the Skar itself. Not very bright."  
"You have no proof. Only eyewitnesses, and ones who are no doubt being told by the Redoran nobleman what to think." The Khajiit's voice was quite silky as she proclaimed her innocence. "You have nothing and we both know it."  
"Then if you have nothing to hide and nothing to lose, save for maybe a day's worth of travel or so, you won't mind accompanying me back to Buckmoth for questioning. If you are innocent, as you claim, then we will happily pay for the first silt strider from Ald'Ruhn back to Khuul. A few questions, we straighten everything out, and you lose a day as the guest of the Legion. You're not under arrest. Yet." The implied threat was obvious. If the Khajiit came with him, there would be no trouble. If she didn't . . .  
Sighing, Shotherra stood up slowly. "Let me pay the bill, and we'll be on our way."  
Kharag belched loudly and summoned the barkeeper over. "Thish loverly Ka-Ka-Khasheet is on my bill. What der owe you me?"  
"Twenty drakes, and that's for the both of you." Clearly, the bartender wanted them both gone before something bad happened. Kharag flashed a drunken smile at the bartender as he emptied his coin purse on the table, then stood up and threw his arm around Shotherra's shoulders. The two walked out of the tradehouse, Kharag swaying a little for effect, Shotherra trying very hard not to look embarrassed. As they moved to the edge of town, Kharag slowly straightened up, the grip on the Khajiit's shoulder tightening slightly but remaining casual in appearance.  
"Aren't we going in the wrong direction for the silt strider?" Shotherra asked, a faint note of concern in her voice.  
"I used the last of my money to pay that bar bill," rumbled Kharag, "so we'll have to hike out to Gnisis, then catch the strider there to Ald'Ruhn. Don't worry, my commander will make all the arrangements."  
After walking for a couple of hours, Shotherra glanced around. The trail that Kharag was leading her down ran through a steep sided gully. Clouds had blown in, obscuring the the moons. She could hear kagouti calling out in the hills somewhere, but they sounded distant. Something about this didn't feel right.  
"Stop here a moment, Khajiit," ordered Kharag. Shotherra stopped and turned, seeing Kharag's Legion issue sword pointed at her chest. "The time for deception and pretense is over. I know you are a member of the Dark Brotherhood, one of their assassins, and I know you carry an artifact that is not of this world. I want it, and I want it now."  
Shotherra laid a hand over her chest, feigning offense. "I do not know what you're talking about." As she spoke, she rubbed an amulet around her neck, keeping the motion concealed as best she could. "Truly, sir, you have mistaken me for somebody else. I am not who you believe I am, and I do not know what artifact you are talking about."  
The words struck Kharag's ear in a strange fashion, as if there was a faint buzzing undertone to the Khajiit's voice. Could he really be mistaken? Might there have been a deception on the part of the Dark Brotherhood to offer up an innocent victim in order to conceal the real assassin? As Kharag mulled on the question, he saw Shotherra's hand move. There was something around her neck, and she was rubbing it . . .  
The Khajiit felt certain that this fool, whoever he was working for, was now properly distracted. Shotherra reached down to her belt, a hand closing around the hilt of a dagger. The next thing she knew, she was laying on her back on the ground, Kharag's sword driven right through her heart, his foot crushing down on her wrist. She looked up at him in surprise. How had he moved so fast?  
Kharag saw the light slowly fading out of her eyes. "Oblivion welcomes you now, Khajiit, courtesy of the Morag Tong." He saw her start to snarl a final curse, but the light faded in her eyes as she expired. For the next few minutes, Kharag stripped the corpse bare, stuffing everything into his pack. He then dragged the corpse back up the road a short distance to a narrow creek and dumped the body. The smell of blood in the water would attract the slaughterfish from nearby tributaries, and they would make short work of the body. The bones might stay for a while, but even they would break down or become buried over time. On the whole, Kharag did not find any fault with his performance. His father would be pleased.  
  
Averren kept his head pointed down as he shambled past the the Legionnaire on duty at the eggmine's front entrance. He'd borrowed a set of dusty robes from a crate in the fort's storage room, then snagged a pickaxe from a mine cart on the path to the eggmine. He knew that he couldn't bluff his way into the mine under the umbrella of official Legion business. As far as Darius knew, Averren was still trying to bullyrag Widow Vabdas into handing over her deed. If murder had happened in the eggmine, Averren knew he'd need proof, something conclusive, something more substantial than the widow's word about seeing her dead husband in her dreams. And since he was the lowest ranking solider around, as far as he knew, then he had no clout with which use as leverage. As usual, he was going to have to rely on his wits, and trust to whatever luck he had.  
The Legionnaire on duty at the entrance gave Averren a cursory glance and waved him into the mine. Averren hid a smile. Some things never changed. As soon as Averren was inside and out of sight of the Legionnaire, he ducked into an alcove and got rid of the robe, then put on his chainmail and the rest of his armor. For now, he kept his sword sheathed, not wanting to upset the miners or make them curious. Just before he'd left for Gnisis, Averren had picked up a small contract with the Fighter's Guild to find a pair of poachers, people who'd been stealing from an eggmine south of Balmora. The money had been small, but it had helped offset his travel costs. As he moved deeper into the eggmine, he remembered what one of the miners had told him about kwama. They didn't like strangers, or those who smelled like strangers.  
The main level of the eggmine proved empty of anything resembling evidence. Kwama workers came across Averren's path several times, causing him to stop and allow them to run their feelers over him, letting them get his scent. A couple of the miners asked what Averren was doing down in the mine, and Averren politely informed them that he was following up on the disappearance of Serjo Vabdas. The miners told him that the last time anybody has seen Vabdas, he'd been heading into the lower levels of the mine. Averren thanked them and moved off, searching for the way down.  
A little while later, Averren found the path he was looking for, a gently sloping footpath leading deep into the earth. The smell of kwama was stronger here, hanging in the air thickly, almost drowning out other smells entirely. Averren walked slowly, trying to stay as quiet as he could. Down here, men and mer didn't come around very often, and whatever denizens lived in this deep corner of the world, he didn't want to alert them to his presence. Presently, Averren became aware of two distinct sounds. The first was faint and distorted from echoing off the walls of the eggmine, but recognizable as running water. The second was louder and closer. Somebody snoring, just up ahead, around a curve.  
Creeping forward, Averren caught the flicker of a fire. He poked his head around the curve, seeing a small campfire and an orc sleeping on a bedroll, snoring soundly, two bottles of flin and a bottle of shein strewn about. What made the sight more surprising was the fact the orc wore a Legionnaire's chainmail uniform, the helmet and gauntlets tossed carelessly off to the side, but the orc was undoubtedly a member of the Legion. A drunk and snoring member of the Legion, sleeping in the heart of the eggmine. Something about this gave Averren a small shiver. He felt that this had something to do with the missing Dunmer farmer Vabdas.  
The orc turned over in his sleep and resumed snoring. Averren thought hard for a few minutes. He considered falling back and reporting to Darius about the orc, but that didn't seem like a viable option. Darius would question why Averren had been in the eggmine, and that would be the end of Averren's career in the Legion. Which would mean that his assignment for the Blades would fail. No, if Averren was going to accomplish his mission, he was going to have to find the evidence he needed to convince Darius of a murder. And since he couldn't find any evidence of the murder behind him, the only way Averren could go was forward.  
A few moments of careful study gave Averren the direction of the water that he'd been hearing. It meant sneaking past the orc but he had no choice. Wishing that he'd kept the robe just a little while longer, Averren slowly walked past the sleeping orc. He was halfway to the small tunnel where he thought the water sound was coming from when he heard a high pitcher chittering sound. Averren's head snapped to the left, catching only a moment's glance of the ball lightning crackling toward him before he dropped to the ground hard, the energized sphere whipping through the air and scorching the rock. The orc simply rolled over again, grumbling in his sleep. Averren scrambled forward along the ground, trying to get to the tunnel, another ball of lightning crashing into the ground beside him, sparks flying and arcing off the chainmail, numbing his limbs. With a concerted effort to focus his will, he crawled into the tunnel and hazarded a glance behind him. A kwama warrior stood at the tunnel's mouth, probing the darkness with a limb, unable to squeeze into the tunnel, chittering in rage that the intruder had escaped. Behind the insectoid, the orc continued to sleep. Thinking that there was simply no way he would be able to go back the way he came in, Averren slowly crawled deeper into the new tunnel.  
After getting his feet back under him, Averren worked his way through the narrow sinuous passage, the sound of water growing stronger the further he went. Within minutes, he came out into a large chamber, an underground pool surrounding a stalactite lit from within by phosphorescent algae. And before him, a ghost.  
"Who are you?" asked Averren firmly. For some reason, he felt like he'd been expecting this.  
"In life, I was called Mansilamat Vabdas." The ghost's sepulchral voice held a mournful note in it. "I came here to help feed my wife and myself, and here I shall remain."  
"What happened to you?" asked Averren, a cautious note in his voice.  
"I came into the deep part of the eggmine, close to the queen's chamber, because the eggs would still be fresh and the workers would not have moved them to the upper chambers. By getting to the eggs early, I knew I could escape with a couple of the smaller ones without attracting attention. Then I saw him. Lugrub."  
"The orc?"  
"The Legionnaire orc. When I entered, he was sleeping, as he is now. As I tried to make my way out, he struck me from behind with his axe, crippling me at first, then killing me with a second stroke. Once he realized what he'd done, he came back here and threw both my body and his axe into the pool ahead of you."  
Averren sighed softly. "A great shame for the Legion, and I can only offer my apologies for the moment. Given what happened to you, I get the feeling that if I tried to make my way back along the path I used to get in, we'd end up keeping each other company for a very long time."  
"There is a way out." The ghost turned, looking beyond the far side of the pool. "You can hear it from here."  
Frowning in thought, Averren looked in the same direction, hearing the rushing water that had dropped into the background of his hearing by this point. "There's a way out, using the river. It opens up outside somewhere, doesn't it?"  
The ghost only nodded then glanced back down the tunnel. "If you would be the man who brings my murderer to justice, then please hurry. I can feel Lugrub stirring, and when he's awake, he's as cunning as they come. You must escape quickly."  
"But I can't escape without getting the proof of your murder." Averren glanced around. The pool looked deep, the algae's light a dim blue that gave little indication of how far down the bottom laid. And swimming with his armor on would be tiring very quickly. He knew he had to think of something quickly, but his options seemed limited.  
Slowly sliding into the pool, Averren clung to the rocks lining the side and pulled himself hand over hand to far side of the pool, discerning the tunnel that led out of the chamber towards the underground river. Averren crawled out of the water and went a short distance into the new tunnel, then stripped down to his jerkin and returned to the pool. He took several deep breaths, filling his lungs with a good amount of oxygen, then slipped under the surface and swam towards the bottom, making out a faint gleam through the water.  
The ghost of Mansilamat Vabdas disappeared as Lugrub gro-Ogdum entered the chamber, a Legion issued short sword clenched in his meaty fist, a suspicious look on his face. At the bottom of the pool, Averren found Vabdas' water-logged corpse, the normally severe Dunmer features distorted and bloated by the time spent in the water. Beside the body lay a single bladed iron axe, the edge nicked deeply, the thick head showing large cracks throughout, the leather wrapped haft almost split in two down its length. Averren reached down to pull the axe up from the bottom and looked up, seeing Lugrub standing at the edge of the pool, looking around, tapping the point of the short sword into his hand expectantly.  
It took every ounce of willpower not to panic, but Averren somehow managed it. His heart had now begun racing as he very slowly crept along the bottom, working his way around the back of the rocky spire that sat in the middle of the pool, his lungs burning from storing up the air that Averren refused to release. One errant bubble would give away Averren's position as easily as any sound. The weight of the axe in Averren's grip held him down quite nicely, forcing him to pull himself up one-handed along the back of the spire, his chest feeling for all the world like it would explode.  
As Lugrub began to make his way back towards his bedroll, Averren's head broke the surface of the water, his lungs emptying violently through his nose then taking in fresh air greedily. In all of Averren's years, he had never had a more harrowing time as those few minutes under the water. Once he'd recovered sufficient energy, Averren slipped back into the tunnel leading to the river and gathered his belongings, then sat beside the stream, examining it closely, plotting his escape.  
  
"Very well done, Spearman," smiled Darius. "You made it back from Khuul in record time. I can't say I was surprised at the message the hetman sent back with you, but that's nothing to worry about for you. Now, for your next assignment--"  
A junior officer stepped into Darius' office and cleared his throat. "Excuse me, General, but Recruit Lirondi is here to see you. Says he has to talk to you about the Vabdas farm."  
"Good," growled Darius softly. "Send him in." The junior officer left quickly and ushered in Averren. Both Darius and Kharag looked at the soaking wet Dunmer that came to attention in front of them, bits of water grasses hanging off the rings of his chainmail, smears of river mud all over his armor and skin.  
"I hope you have one very good and detailed explanation for this, recruit." Darius' voice could have cut diamonds.  
"Yes, Sir, General Darius, Sir. I do have such an explanation, Sir. However, in the course of my explanation, I may require information from you and respectfully reserve the right to pause my explanation so that I can obtain that information through direct questioning."  
"Get on with it," said Darius flatly.  
Averren took a deep breath and began. "As the General instructed, I spoke with the widow Vabdas about turning the deed to her farm over to us. She was most vehemently opposed to such an act and made her displeasure quite obvious. She then made the claim that her husband had not died in an alit attack, as we had presumed earlier, but had in fact been murdered."  
"And what was the basis for this claim?"  
"The widow claimed that the ghost of her dead husband was contacting her in her sleep." Averren saw Darius' face begin to snarl in protest and continued with added urgency. "While such a claim of otherworldly contact is dubious at best, it must be given at least some consideration, given the Dunmer people's historical reverence for the spirits of deceased family members and the Empire's own experience with contact by ghosts in a dream medium. The most prominent of which is the incident involving Jager Tharn thirty years ago."  
Darius winced slightly, but otherwise kept his composure. "Twenty-five years, actually, but the point is taken. Continue."  
"I entered the eggmine and made inquiries whether Mansilamat Vabdas had been in the mine previously and was informed that he did work there from time to time to help supplement his income and his food stores. They could not say when he'd last been in the eggmine, but they reckoned it to be at least a month. I went further into the eggmine and ultimately did come upon the body of Mansilamat Vabdas. It had been dumped inside an underground pool. Although the body was starting to show some signs of natural decay even underwater, there was evidence that he had died by violent means. General, who discovered the evidence that led you to believe Serjo Vabdas had died in an animal attack?"  
"Lugrub gro-Ogdum."  
"Has this Legionnaire had any disciplinary problems?"  
Darius mulled for a moment, then shrugged slightly. "I can recall a couple of incidents where he was found asleep at his post. He was disciplined at that time."  
"Does he tend to favor some weapon other than the standard issue Legion sword?"  
"Yes, I believe he favors using an axe."  
Averren unlimbered the weapon he'd recovered from the bottom of the pool and laid it down on the table. "This axe?"  
Leaning in close, Darius' brow furrowed first in examination, then in fury. "Explain, recruit."  
"This axe was found next to Vabdas' body. There were two wounds which were quite clearly inflicted by this weapon, the last of which probably cracked the haft." Averren paused slightly, then continued, figuring that the physical proof had already done enough. "I spoke with the ghost of Mansilamat Vabdas, and he told me without any suggestion from me that Lugrub killed him. Vabdas died because he'd caught Lugrub sleeping, and away from his post I'd guess, since he was the only person that close to the queen's chamber. Lugrub hid the body and the evidence, figuring nobody would go looking that deep."  
"And how is it you got past Lugrub?" Darius asked pointedly. "Did you confront him and kill him?"  
"No, Sir. I felt it was necessary to get this information to you and to let you judge what must happen next. There was an underground stream, one that had a swift current at that, and I basically floated out on that. I took it on faith that it led outside. My feet are a bit sore from bouncing off rocks, but I made it out that way."  
Darius sat down, a brooding look on his face, considering his position and his options. Finally with a shake of his head, he locked his eyes on Averren. "Lugrub's life is forfeit. He has betrayed his oath, and he has stained the honor of the Legion, compounding his weakness with this heinous crime. Recruit, you will confront Lugrub and you will execute him for this crime. Spearman gro-Kremputro will accompany you. And while you are down there, Spearman, you will use the following scroll to apply a curative spell on the kwama queen. The suspicion is that she's contracted some sort of Blight, and it must be cured quickly. You two will not fail me." Darius handed Kharag a scroll and gave both of them a flinty look.  
"No, Sir! We will not fail!" the two Legionnaires replied.  
  
The first thing Lugrub felt were the two steel headed spears driving through his sides, pinning him to the rocky floor of the eggmine. They brought him to life, short though it would remain. He snarled in surprise and in agony, an orc and a Dunmer holding the shafts of the spears tightly, both of them looking at him with undisguised contempt.  
"Lugrub gro-Ogdum," growled the Dunmer, "You have been found guilty of murder, conspiracy, and dereliction of duty. Your sentence is death." The orc reached over and took hold of the Dunmer's spear, holding it in place. The Dunmer moved forward, digging his heels into Lugrub's shoulders mercilessly as he unlimbered an axe. Lugrub's eyes went wide as he recognized the weapon.  
"Sentence is to be carried out immediately," the Dunmer sneered coldly. The dark gray skin tightened as the Dark Elf brought the axe down, cleaving Lugrub's skull in two, the crunching of the orc's skull masking the faint splintering sound as the hastily wrapped axe haft cracked again.  
Averren stepped off of the corpse, his hands trembling slightly, looking away as Lugrub's body twitched in involuntary spasms. Caius had told him that if there was a direct order to kill someone, then Averren was to follow it, except if the condemned was a source. He knew that he hadn't been around long enough to try and develop Lugrub as a source, but Lugrub's actions would have probably placed him beyond the protection of the Blades in any event. Sure, he thought to himself, just keep telling yourself that, and you might almost believe it in a few years. A duel was one thing, an ambush was another, open battle was still another, but execution grated on Averren's mind. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he'd almost been there himself once that made it so distasteful. Maybe it was the way they'd pinned Lugrub to the ground and rendered him helpless before delivering the final blow. Kharag had suggested the plan, couching it in the most pragmatic terms he could, pointing out that Lugrub had been a Legionnaire full time for some while, and if Lugrub was asleep then they would be fools to wake him up. As Kharag put it, "He lost his right to die cleanly when he killed Vabdas."  
Turning over his shoulder, Averren watched Kharag pull the spears from Lugrub's body. It seemed to him that Kharag put an awful lot of thought into the situations which he was ordered into, and Kharag was only a reservist. The Divines only knew how well the full timers prepared. Or maybe it was just Kharag's way--  
The air sizzled as a ball of lightning crashed into the stone near Kharag's head. Averren could only watch in dumbstruck amazement as Kharag dropped to a knee fluidly. For such a big fellow, he moved fast.  
A pair of kwama warriors charged at them, shrieking as they approached. Kharag tossed Averren a spear, then rolled away as a kwama warrior came dangerously close to tearing off the chain hauberk from his body. Averren planted the butt of the spear into the ground and braced his foot against it, letting the other kwama warrior impale itself. The insectoid shrieked again and tried pulling itself off the spear point. Growling, Averren twisted the spear, locking the animal into place. Kharag had done much the same thing, though he'd had the foresight to jam his spear into a crevice in the rock. As the orc stabbed and swiped at the kwama warrior with a shortsword, his free hand went down to his belt, feeling around frantically.  
"Averren, the scroll's gone!" he bellowed as steel clashed against chitin. "We have to pull back!"  
Averren's eyes widened as a thought struck him. "No, Kharag! Just keep these things away from me, and I'll take care of the queen!" He turned and ran deeper into the mine, heading for the queen's chamber.  
Kharag would've shaken his head if he'd had a spare moment. Instead, he simply growled under his breath about mad outlanders as he finished off the kwama in front of him and turned his attention to the warrior Averren had impaled.  
Within moments, Averren stood at the mouth of the queen's chamber. He'd never seen a kwama queen up close before, and the sight filled him with mixed dread and wonder. Under normal circumstances, the queen might be a thing of alien beauty, the long delicately feathered antennae contrasting with the thick chitinous thorax and the massive bulbous egg sac. Yet this queen was diseased, the antennae either almost listless or thrashing out violently for a few moments, the chitin dull and cracked, the egg sac an unhealthy shade of gray. The insectoid wasn't dying. It was suffering.  
Averren slowly approached the queen, then pressed his hands lightly against the thorax. Taking a deep breath, he began to recite the incantation he'd learned at the Gnisis Temple, the spell that removed diseases, even Blights. He felt the magicka within him welling up and flowing through his hands into the kwama queen as he continued to recite the spell, speaking in a clear and steady voice. Averren's eyes remained open the whole time, watching in fascination as the queen slowly began to heal in front of him. The egg sac began to take on a healthier pinkish-brown color, the chitin becoming smooth and lustrous, the antennae standing straight up then relaxing into a soft waving pattern. A fluid guttural sound escaped from the queen, a sound of relief from what Averren could guess. He stepped away slowly, feeling slightly light headed from the massive drain of magicka but pleased with what he'd accomplished.  
The next thing he knew, Averren was flying through the air, his body relaxing reflexively as he'd been taught to by Caius, a momentary flash of a kwama warrior's knobby arm following through on the backhanded blow it had dealt him passing in front of his eyes. He crashed into the cavern wall, passing through it with punishing force, his shoulder and ribs flaring up into agony for a few moments before blackness overcame him as he crashed to the ground.  
  
"Averren," called a voice in the blackness. "Averren, can you hear me?"  
For some reason, Averren couldn't get up. His body felt like cast iron, and the left side burned with a dull and angry pain, protesting every breath he took. His mind recognized the voice but couldn't quite seem to put a name to it. He thought that his eyes were open, but for some reason he still couldn't see anything.  
"Averren, wake up, damn you," the voice growled, the sound reaching his ears more clearly now.  
"Kh-Kharag . . ." Averren croaked.  
"Almsivi be praised, you're alive." The orc's voice rumbled with relief and a bit of exasperation. "I was starting to think you'd gone and died on me. I wouldn't have enjoyed making that report, I can tell you."  
Averren's eyes fluttered a little, his eyes now beginning to pick up faint details. Wherever they were, it was almost pitch black, what little light reached them from a source he couldn't easily locate. "Where are we?"  
"Still in the eggmine, more or less. Though I think that you may have found a new area that the miners might have missed." Here, Kharag chuckled softly. "Next time, though, you might try using a pickaxe and a shovel. Fewer broken bones that way."  
Groaning, Averren, tried to sit up again, then slumped back down. "I can't move," he complained weakly.  
"Nor should you be trying to. I've bound you up as well as I could, helps keep the bones from moving too much. But we need to get you back the barracks soon."  
"Where exactly are we?" Averren asked again.  
"Best guess, we're about thirty feet or so below the queen's chamber, and about a hundred feet back or so. Either you hit the weakest spot in that wall or whatever hit you didn't pull its punch. There's a passageway behind us. One direction seems to lead into another chamber of some sort, but I didn't explore the path very far. The other moves up and over, leads what I think is that underground river you were telling General Darius about earlier. That might be our only way to get out of here, and you're not exactly in shape for a swim."  
Kharag pressed the tip of a waterskin to Averren's lips and squeezed gently for a few moments. "For right now, Averren, just rest a bit. I'll see if I can't think of something."  
"Thanks, Kharag," Averren murmured softly before fading out into unconsciousness. 


	9. Chapter 8: Duties

[Chapter 8 – Duties]  
  
Averren and Kharag marched resolutely along the path towards the small encampment at the top of a hill near Ald'Velothi. Their low pitched conversation wasn't nearly so resolute.  
"I have a very bad feeling about this," Averren murmured. "I'm not a diplomat. I can barely negotiate a decent price for clothes."  
Kharag's voice rumbled softly. "Nothing to worry about, Averren. We just mind our manners and complete our assignment. We can do this."  
"How is it I ended up the one doing all the talking?"  
"Because, as things go, they'll have only slightly less trouble with you doing the talking than they would if I was the one doing the talking. You're a Dunmer at the very least, which is a basis for common ground. I'm just one of those stupid, smelly Orcs, and a member of the invading Legion, to boot."  
Averren glanced over at Kharag briefly. "I'm part of the same damn Legion!" he hissed softly.  
"Yes, but there's always the hope you could turn against the Legion. They will make no such assumption with me."  
Gritting his teeth, Averren walked on, his shoulders tightening back just a little further. Kharag noticed this and chuckled very gently. "Just be very polite. Ask permission to do things, like entering tents or sitting down. Once we get down to the actual negotiating, be polite, but be honest. We don't want to upset our hosts."  
Averren said nothing, keeping in step with Kharag until they reached the top of the hill. A well crafted yurt stood in front of them, the top slightly conical, the eaves curling over as the roof met the walls. To one side, a male Dunmer stood, a chitin dirk stuffed into a sash around his waist, a chitin bow in his hands with an arrow nocked. On the other side stood a female Dunmer, a leather vest embellished with intricate and visually stunning beadwork covering a simple homespun blouse, a knife and beaded scabbard sitting on one hip. Both of them looked hard at the two Legionnaires.  
"Never seen Ashlanders before, have you?" Kharag muttered, his lips almost perfectly still.  
Averren made a soft grunt in the negative. They were Dunmer, like him, yet they were nothing like him. For a fleeting instant, he wondered what it might have been like when the Dunmer were one nation and one people, how much simpler it might have been. Shaking the thought off, Averren approached the Dunmer with the bow.  
"We wish to speak to your headman."  
"About what, n'wah?" the archer asked, his voice quiet but his tone vaguely insulting.  
"About the woman you've captured. The Temple wants her back. The hetman of the village just down the road wants her back. I'm the one who must bring her back, and I'm here to make that happen."  
The archer gave Averren a vicious grin. "So what's stopping you from just taking her back?"  
Averren kept a neutral tone. "I was told to bring her back. I thought I'd give you the chance to ransom her off instead of just coming in and killing everybody. After all," he said with a frosty edge in his voice, "we're not savages."  
The woman behind him chuckled. "He's got a sharp wit to go with his tongue, Ansipal. Best give him some courtesy before he cuts your throat with it."  
Anispal flicked his eyes over to his comrade for a moment before returning his gaze to Averren, the smile on his face becoming a bit more respectful. "Allow me to announce you first, and gain our leader's permission." He went over and tapped twice on the poles that served as the doorframe, then entered briefly. Coming out, he held the flap open and ushered them inside.  
Averren and Kharag stepped in, both of their eyes briefly scanning the interior of the yurt. A small fire sat in the center, illuminating the Ashlander headman and a Dunmer woman wearing the clothes of a Temple pilgrim. They locked on the Ashlander and bowed slightly.  
"Greetings to you," began Averren politely. "May we sit down?"  
"Greetings to you as well, outlander," the Ashlander replied. He gestured to a pair of thick cushions behind them. "Please, sit and make yourselves comfortable. I imagine you've been marching a long way just to see me."  
"Thank you." The two Legionnaires sat down. Averren cleared his throat and looked directly at the Ashlander. "You are correct, serjo. We have marched a long way to see you. And it is our hope that this march will not be in vain."  
"That will depend very heavily on what you came here for." The tone of voice was disturbingly neutral.  
"We have come for the woman you captured. My leader has told me that she must be returned unharmed. The hetman of Ald'Velothi has told me she must be returned unharmed. Just before I left Gnisis, the Master of the Temple physically barred my path to tell me that she must be returned unharmed. As you can no doubt guess, I am working under considerable expectations, almost unreasonable ones."  
The Ashlander raised an eyebrow, a faintly menacing note in his voice. "Are you suggesting that I will be unreasonable?"  
"No, serjo. I believe you to be quite reasonable. But I believe my superiors have the unreasonable expectation that you will either just quietly hand her over or you will do something . . .unreasonable. Surely, you can't hold me accountable for the assumptions of others."  
"I could, but it would only prove your superiors' assumptions. And I'm not really in the mood to make the Temple, the Redoran, or your n'wah Legion smile." The Ashlander's face lit up in a faintly predatory grin. "You are clever, outlander, but this is not unexpected. Many outlanders are clever, in their way. What I want to know is if you will be honest."  
Now it was Averren's turn to smile, hopefully projecting reassurance. "If I lie to you, then I'm only proving your assumptions. And I'm only in the mood to make sure both of us smile when I return to my leader."  
"So, if I told you that this woman is mine by tribal right as a slave, and I intend to put her to work at my people's encampment when I return to them in the spring, this would not make you smile?"  
"You know that it would not. You are no fool. While she may mean nothing to me personally, I have my orders, and to fail in that task would cause me great misery."  
"I see." The Ashlander reached over and offered them a plate with strips of scrib jerky. Averren and Kharag each took a piece, then the Ashlander took one for himself. All three chewed silently, the Ashlander looking very thoughtful. "Since your superiors seem to value this woman so highly that they have exhorted you to recover her, I will ransom her to you. The price is five thousand drakes."  
Both Averren and Kharag restrained themselves from making any overt signs of surprise. Five thousand septims was outrageous by anybody's reckoning. For a nobleman, maybe, but a Temple pilgrim, absolutely not. Averren's mind began to race. With the prize money that he and Kharag had earned from cleaning out a cave full of smugglers the week before, they had more than enough, but if they used the prize money, the Legion would only reimburse each of them up to five hundred septims. They didn't want to let the Ashlander know how much they actually had on hand. They also didn't want to give up all of the money. Kharag's term of service for reserve duty would be up in a few days, and Averren didn't relish the thought of trying to clean out another smuggler's base without the orc. A very small part of him said that it was only money. Another part of him said it was more money than he'd ever be able to earn in the Legion.  
"Serjo, either you take me for a fool, or you take your hostage for a woman of means. Look at her," Averren said while pointing a finger at the woman, "and tell me that she is worth such an extraordinary amount."  
The Ashlander glanced over at the pilgrim, then back to Averren. "I see a woman with a good strong back and firm hands. She could be put to great use. Mucking out the guar corral, cleaning hides, washing clothes, mending tents. There's plenty of work for her."  
"But not so much as to be worth five thousand drakes. Two hundred, maybe."  
The Ashlander feigned shock. "Two hundred? I couldn't even get a guar for that kind of money. Two thousand."  
"Two thousand would be enough for three or four slaves in Tel Mora," protested Averren, knowing full well he didn't have the slightest idea what the average cost of slaves in Tel Mora really was, and had no inclination to find out either. "You may see a strong back on her, but I don't. I see a Temple zealot who'd spend so much time praying to the Tribunal for deliverance that you'd pay me to take her from you. Five hundred. That surely should be enough for a Nord or Redguard, or even an Argonian, if you're really that desperate for another pair of hands."  
"One thousand," snapped the Ashlander, though the look in his eyes told Kharag at least that this negotiation was almost wrapped up. Averren had apparently touched a nerve with that bit about needing another pair of hands. Either the Ashlander wasn't going to be using her for such menial labor, or he'd been planning on squeezing as much gold as he could out of the Temple. Kharag smiled mentally. Having Averren doing the talking had been the right way to go in this situation.  
Averren shook his head almost mournfully. "I must stand firm at five hundred. It's more than she's actually worth and better than having any sort of personal misery befalling you." Kharag's mental grin widened at that. Let the Ashlander mull on what "personal misery" might actually entail. "Five hundred. Take it and call it a day, serjo."  
The Ashlander's smile showed no bitterness. He'd been beaten, and he knew it. "Five hundred. Give me the gold and take her with my compliments."  
Averren fished out coins and made a large multi-layered stack, then frowned and looked at Kharag. "I seem to be a bit short. Spot me?"  
"Of course," Kharag rumbled, laying out the remainder of the ransom. The Ashlander and the Legionnaires stood up, then Averren helped the pilgrim to her feet.  
"Until we meet again, serjo," Averren said, bowing gracefully. He ushered the pilgrim out of the yurt, Kharag following close behind.  
  
A few hours later, Averren and Kharag walked down the road to Gnisis. The pilgrim, Madura Seran, had been thankful for being rescued and the hetman in Ald'Velothi had been quite friendly with the two Legionnaires. As far as they were concerned, Theldyn Virith owed them a debt of gratitude, and the rest of the Legion could go hang themselves. Or so Virith had said. The friendliest gesture thus far made to either Averren or Kharag, and that was counting the small amount of fame they'd earned for healing the kwama queen and for bringing Mansilamat Vabdas' killer to justice. Both of them took their praise and smiled, neither one of them actually enjoying it like they should have. Each knew that fame was not something they wanted to be collecting.  
As they walked down the road, Averren spied a woman standing by the road, a Breton from what he could tell. She paced nervously by the edge of a small pool, the sides steep and rocky, a tall tree shading one side. Once she caught sight of them, she began to wave, beckoning them. There wasn't any great urgency in it, which suggested to Averren and Kharag that the problem at hand wasn't one of life or death. Giving each other a look, the two Legionnaires approached with pleasant smiles on their faces.  
"Oh, how wonderful!" the woman sighed. "Here I am, standing by the side the road with my ring lost, and along comes the Legion to save me."  
"We do our best, madam," Averren smiled. "You say you lost your ring?"  
The Breton woman nodded. "Yes. I was twirling around as I walked. Very silly of me, I know, a habit my mother tried to break me of many times. But I couldn't help it! It just looked so shiny in the sun, the way the stone caught the light, it was so pretty."  
The two Legionnaires chuckled, sharing a glance, then returned their gaze to her.  
"I don't suppose you fine men would like to fetch my ring? I think I saw where it went into the water over there." The woman batted her eyes at them. Averren smiled back, then gave Kharag a playful smack on the shoulder.  
"What?" Kharag asked, looking vaguely surprised.  
"It's your turn, my friend. I did my brave act for the day. Yours will be significantly easier."  
Grumbling, but smiling good naturedly, Kharag removed his boots and slowly made his way down to the pool. "Somewhere over here?"  
The Breton woman nodded, then turned her attention to Averren. "Tell me, Dunmer, what brings you to this part of Vvardenfell?"  
"Official business. My companion and I just rescued a Temple pilgrim from some Ashlanders." Averren smiled at the statement, knowing that only a few hours earlier, he'd been quite certain that they never would have succeeded.  
"Must've been difficult, dealing with those savages," the Breton cooed.  
"Actually, they were very polite. We negotiated, and I was able to ransom her. It took all the gold in our purses combined, but we got her back."  
"How brave."  
Averren shrugged and gave a small dismissive wave. "Nothing that the Legion doesn't do regularly." He was about to make another deprecating comment when something caught his eye, some sort of . . .movement, just off to his right.  
"The Legion does it's job well. And maybe the next time you're in Khuul, you'll see Synette do her job well."  
"And what would Synette's job be?" Averren asked playfully.  
"I'm a dancer in the tradehouse there in Khuul."  
Kharag had been listening to the conversation as he waded slowly through the pool, hearing how the Breton had been flirting with Averren. He had found the ring and had just closed his hand around it when he heard Synette state her occupation. Frowning in thought, Kharag flashed back to the time he'd spent in that tradehouse. Small, dingy, a bit cramped.  
No dancing girls. No stage, no area roped off for performance space. The tradehouse in Khuul never had dancing girls. Kharag came to an awful and immediate realization as he looked up to where Averren and Synette were talking.  
"AVERREN!" he bellowed. "AMBUSH!"  
Averren's eyes widened as he heard the word, then he grunted in pain as a well placed kick caught him across the midsection, sending him stumbling back. The look in Synette's eyes and the sound of her voice were chilling.  
"No good deed goes unpunished," she hissed as she pulled a shuriken from inside her blouse. Spinning on her heel, she snapped her wrist out and sent the weapon flying down towards Kharag. Averren fought to regain his breath and his balance when an arrow drove into his shoulder. Turning and dropping into a crouch, Averren saw another arrow whizzing past him, coming from behind the tree that stood over the pool. He snapped the chitin shaft of the arrow off, then drew his sword and charged the position.  
Kharag knew how perfectly they'd been suckered, and part of his mind chastised him for falling into such an obvious trap. How many times had he been told that the best trap is the one that is hidden in plain sight? He didn't have time to think about it. Later, if there was a "later," he'd examing his performance. Right now, he was having to improvise. He'd taken the helmet from his head and was using it to deflect the shuriken being rained down on him by Synette. She'd apparently been well prepared, or had run this scheme more than a few times in this spot. Kharag didn't swing the helmet around wildly. He shifted it from point to point, deflecting, occasionally stopping one of the throwing stars, as he marched slowly back up to the high ground. Sooner or later, she'd either run out or she'd loose more than one per throw, and then who knew what would happen.  
Averren made it to the tree, bleeding from the shoulder, sword drawn in his left hand. He'd always been fairly ambidexterous, and now that talent was coming into play. He saw an indistinct shimmering, almost like a heat wave, standing behind the tree. His sword arm snapped out . . .and hit nothing. A faint whistling sound burned into Averren's ears. Without thinking, he brought his sword back up into a guard position, feeling the blade strike metal, but not seeing anything but the shimmering, intermittent in front of his vision.  
Another stroke rang against Averren's sword. He couldn't keep doing this for very long. Fighting blind would have been easier. All he could do right then was hold his guard up and pray.  
As Averren fought his phantom opponent, Kharag had made it up the hill and engaged Synette in a knife fight. Knives were some of the last weapons that a Morag Tong assassin learned to use, for they required fast reflexes and steely nerve to get in close. His father had told him quite plainly during those days, "Kharag, my son, the first rule of a knife fight is that you must accept the fact you will get cut. It does not matter if the knife is the finest Daedric blade or a cheap bottle with the bottom broken off. When knives come together, you must accept that you will get cut. To expect otherwise is to take the first step towards your own death." Kharag had already taken a few shallow cuts from Synette's chitin dagger, but he ignored them, keeping his attention on his guard and on her attacks. She wasn't bad, as knife fighters went, but something about her stance and moves told him that either she'd never been taught that critical first rule, or she'd chosen to ignore it. Kharag's tanto seemed to flicker as he matched the Breton swipe for swipe, move for move, presenting as solid a defense as he could, watching her closely, waiting for that critical mistake.  
Averren was beginning to tire out. He'd been slashed a few times along the arms, and the nearly-invisible point of his opponent's sword had caught on his chainmail more than a few times. The only reason the point hadn't gone further was due to Averren's training with Caius, the unarmed moves that taught him to roll with a hit and minimize its damage now seemed to serve him well here. Sooner or later, though, he wouldn't be able to roll fast enough or far enough to keep the point from wholly piercing his armor. And that would be the end of Averren's tour of duty with the Legion. If he could just see his opponent for one second. If only he could find them . . .  
A small greenish orb seemed to flare into existence just in front of Averren. It moved like it was attached to somebody. This had to be it. He didn't know how or why, but he was seeing something that gave away his enemy's position with perfect clarity. He had to make his attack now.  
Making a wild guess as to his oppnent's next move, Averren turned his wounded right side to his attacker, then stepped forward with his back foot, feeling the enemy's sword skating over the back of his armor as he turned and thrust his sword in just below the glowing green orb. He heard a choked cry of pain and saw blood running down over the back of his hand. Averren twisted the sword savagely, producing a more heartening shriek that died with its originator.  
Synette heard the shriek and paused for only a moment, but it was the only moment Kharag needed. The orc swept Synette's legs out from under her, then drove the tanto straight into her heart just as she hit the ground. The surprise and the impact forced the chitin dagger from her hand. She looked up just in time to see Kharag pulling the tanto from her chest, then watched in dying horror as he clamped a massive hand over her mouth and cut her throat.  
The two Legionnaires collapsed to the ground, sitting down, panting as they struggled to regain their breath.  
"Kharag," gasped Averren, "are we dead yet?"  
"Not yet," Kharag replied breathlessly. "I hurt too much to be dead."  
Averren could only watch as the body of his attacker slowly faded into existence, the glowing orb remaining present only for a moment before it faded out. His attacker had been wearing a chitin breastplate and helm, but not much else in the way of armor. The chitin could probably be repaired and sold for a few drakes. But he wanted to know what it was that had given off that glow. Leaning over, he removed the helmet, revealing a Dunmer woman's anguished face. He then unlaced the breastplate and slid it off the corpse. An ornate amulet sat just above the spot where Averren's sword had gone in. That had to be what was giving off the glow before. Though for the life of him, he couldn't understand what had made it glow, or if he'd been the only one to see it. Averren pulled it from the corpse and inspected it closely, hoping to glean something about its nature.  
Kharag stood up slowly and ambled over to Averren, looking at the amulet in his hand. "Was that what kept her hidden?" he asked politely.  
"I think so. I've never seen it's make before. And the power of the enchantment is incredible. I've never seen somebody so well hidden short of an invisibility spell."  
"You should keep it, Averren. A trophy, if you will. Something like that could be very useful sometime."  
"Perhaps." Averren knew a hundred different ways it could be put use, for good or ill. He certainly didn't want to give it up, though he knew it had to be incredibly valuable to the right people. For now, it was his, and that's how it would stay. "What do we do with the bodies?"  
"Haul them back to Gnisis, I suppose. Condemn their personal belongings, get the value for it, let the locals deal with burial detail." Kharag shrugged slightly. "We're not going to bury them here, are we?"  
Averren should his head and slipped the amulet into a pocket, making a note to have a new thong put in so it would fit better over his own neck. "Guess we better start making a litter to carry them back."  
Kharag nodded and began testing some of the low branches of the tree. 


	10. Chapter 9 : Talos

Chapter 9 – Talos

The morning after returning from Ald'Velothi, Averren and Kharag stood in front of General Darius' desk at full attention. They'd been like that for a full five minutes without a single word from Darius, and both of them were trying very hard not to glance at him. The look on his face when they'd first entered appeared pensive and brooding. They could only imagine that it hadn't improved, since he'd been pacing behind them since bringing them to attention.

"At ease," he sighed softly. "And my apologies for keeping you waiting. I should be thanking you for the wonderful job you did at Ald'Velothi. The Temple master wasn't vocally pleased with your work, but he did send a note of thanks to you both." Darius stepped in front of them, shifting his gaze between Averren and Kharag. "You two are quite a good pair to have working together. And it is only because of this example that you two have set that I am speaking to you right now. Be seated."

Averren and Kharag sat down in the simple chairs in front of Darius' desk. The general sat down behind his desk, then steepled his fingers, still glancing between them. "What you are about to hear does not leave this office. Are we clear on that?"

Averren nodded. "Perfectly, Sir." Kharag also nodded, but remained silent.

"It has been brought to my attention that there may be some sort of conspiracy beginning to form here in the garrison. So far, the only information that has been passed along is that the plotters appear to be affiliated with the Talos cult."

"You suspect that the cult itself has become corrupt?" Kharag asked pointedly.

"No, I don't believe so. Talos worshippers as a whole strive to follow the example set by Tiber Septim. That may be one reason that his worship is so strong among the Legion. But the information I have been given suggests that a small group of communicants has perverted the very virtues that Tiber Septim embodied into the basest vices. Greed, ambition, betrayal, oathbreaking, and treason, if what I hear is true." Darius sighed softly. "Again, I must reaffirm that what is said here goes no farther. This is perhaps the most difficult situation I have ever faced, and the fact that it comes from my own troops is what makes it so hard. Gentlemen, in two months time, Uriel Septim VIII is expected to make a tour of Morrowind, Vvardenfell in particular. Contingents from each garrison in Morrowind are to assemble at Ebonheart for his inspection. Naturally, you can imagine how tempting an opportunity this would be for an assassination attempt."

Kharag and Averren both nodded, but it was Kharag who had the greater appreciation for such a scenario. He'd been to Ebonheart more than a few times in his life, and if he'd been contracted to make such an attempt, impersonation of a Legionnaire would have been the best way he could think of to accomplish such a task. He took his duties to the Legion as seriously as the next man, but once that writ came into his hands, his loyalties stood only with the Morag Tong.

"You want us to find the conspirators?" asked Averren.

"If there are any to be found. We cannot simply accuse Legionnaires of plotting against the Emperor. I simply ask that you make some discreet inquiries, try to get a feel for this situation, then report back to me and we'll see where we need to go from there." Darius smiled at them wanly. "I wouldn't ask you two if I didn't think you could get to the heart of the matter and resolve it."

"We'll find them, Sir." Averren sounded as matter-of-fact as he would have announcing the sun rising.

"Very good. Again, gentlemen, I must stress that you exercise discretion and caution in this matter. You do not wish to alienate your fellow Legionnaires. And you do not wish to give the conspirators easy targets."

Averren and Kharag nodded. Darius gave them a small smile. "I wish you luck, then. Hopefully, none of this dreadful business will come to pass."

It was a day after their orders had been delivered, and neither of the duo had come up with a good opening into the Talos cult. Nearly every man in the garrison was a member, but the worship was generally private and not led by any one man that they could find. As they sat in the shade of the Temple wall, Averren and Kharag compared notes.

"So, what do we know for sure?" Averren asked conversationally.

"We know that everybody in the garrison knows where the shrine for Tiber Septim is located. We know almost everybody goes there at least once a month and meditates for no less than an hour. And we know that such meditation is performed alone. Those are the only hard facts we can gather."

Averren frowned in thought, idly chewing on a marshmerrow stalk. "Maybe we're going about this the wrong way. Perhaps instead of outright asking who leads the community, we need to be more roundabout. Maybe trying to find out who's the most pious or the most devout among the worshippers."

"Or perhaps find the least devout, somebody who pays lip service to the cult while using as a cloak to hide his movements."

Nodding, Averren looked at Kharag. "Now that's a good thought. Who haven't we talked to yet?"

Kharag closed hs eyes, noticably thinking. "The camp prefect, Optio Bologra. If anybody would know, it would be him."

Together, they headed towards the barracks. Inside, they found Optio Bologra sharpening a short sword, focused intently on the job. When they mentioned the Talos cult, Bologra's eyes narrowed a little.

"I'm not one for telling a man which gods to worship or how best to be doing it. Unlike some people around here."

Averren's ears pricked up a little at this. "What do you mean, Prefect?"

"There's a man, Oritius Maro, seems nice enough as long as you're farther away than an arm's length from him. He's just a little too . . .vocal about his faith in Tiber Septim. And more than a little vocal of Uriel Septim these last few months. I've had my eye on him since he came here. His record's as good as can be, but the man is not the record."

"Where would we find him?" Kharag rumbled.

"He's usually in the old house just across from the tradehouse. We use it for supply stoarge and a secondary armory. Can't understand why he's there so often, but he keeps a small cadre of like minded fellows around with him."

"Thank you, Prefect. We'll see if we can catch up with him there." Together, the pair left the main barracks and headed to the house Bologra had mentioned.

It did not take them long to Oritius Maro. Like many Imperials, he was a bit short in stature and long on his sense of superiority. The slight disgusted looks that he gave to Averren and Kharag both spoke volumes of his initial opinion of them.

"Well, if it isn't the great heroes," Maro sighed softly. "Come to grace us lesser mortals with your presence?"

"I wouldn't say that we're quite that big," said Averren with a self-deprecating shrug. "After all, what have we really done? Saved a couple of lives, dispatched a few bandits? Nothing that any other Legionnaire hasn't already done at least twice in this area. The frontier is still wild and dangerous in spite of our very miniscule achievements." Averren hated the way he cheerfully belittled his own accomplishments. He was proud of what he'd done around Gnisis, proud of the victories and the scars he and Kharag had earned. It had taken only a few moments in Maro's presence for Averren to feel out exactly what kind of scum the Legionnaire really was under the uniform. Lugrub had been lazy and sloppy. Maro exuded the aura of unprincipled ambition.

"We serve the Legion, Oritius, and we serve the Empire," Kharag rumbled pleasantly, his porcine face hiding just as much bile at Averren's mendacity as Averren felt. He had also sized up Maro in a few moments, just as he would any other mark, and the assassin had come to the conclusion that he would have slain the Cyrodiil in the name of charity had somebody only asked.

Maro narrowed his eyes slightly. "The Empire is a great and wonderous thing, is it not?'

"But of course," agreed Averren. "The glory of the Imperial City is unequalled. The strength of the Empire cannot be denied by any who have a single wit rattling in their skulls. And in the entire history of Tamriel, no king or other ruler has been mightier or more glorious than Tiber Septim."

Kharag nodded sagely. "Yes, indeed. Though I must say, I think he would be deeply disappointed in his current descendant. Such a waste, really. An Emperor, a true Septim Emperor, should be stronger and more clever than his own battlemages."

"Yes, very embarrassing, that little episode. And the way he's treated his people is less than impeccable."

Maro smiled pleasantly at the pair. "I didn't think you were quite so perceptive. You two have been so dutiful to General Darius."

"The General is an honorable man, and it is our pleasure to serve him," beamed Averren, mixing a good measure of truth to go with his dissembling, "but he's no Tiber Septim."

"And Uriel Septim isn't no Tiber Septim, either," Kharag chimed in, nodding solemnly.

Without another word, Averren knew that they had Maro hooked. He resisted the urge to look over at Kharag, keeping his eyes locked firmly on the treacherous Legionnaire. Maro made a bit of a show, looking them over as if re-evaluating their positions and making thoughtful gestures. Finally, Maro reached into a small pouch at his belt and withdrew a small key.

"In the storeroom in back, we have a small shrine dedicated to Tiber Septim. It would honor me greatly to extend you its blessings. Shall we go down together?"

"Of course," Averren replied graciously. "After you."

Kharag brought up the rear as the three Legionnaires moved towards the storeroom. The opportunity and the desire to snap Oritius Maro's neck would have moved less disciplined men to commit what would undoubtedly be perceived as murder by an outside observer. He hated the thought that Maro polluted Vvardenfell's air by still breathing, but Kharag forced himself to remain patient. It was damnably difficult.

Maro leaned down and opened a trap door set into the floor of the storeroom and gestured for Kharag and Averren to descend. "I'll be up here when you're done," he smiled. Thanking him, Averren descended first. Another Legionnaire stood by the shrine, looking at him curiously.

"What're you doing down here?" the Legionnaire asked, his hand going to his sword hilt.

"Oritius Maro has extended the blessings of this shrine of Talos to us," answered Averren in a soothing voice. "We are here to pray and meditate on the works of Tiber Septim, that we may gain some small portion of his wisdom and his strength."

The Legionnaire seemed to accept this and shifted his hand from the hilt of his sword. Averren and Kharag both stood in front of the small altar for a few minutes, certainly appearing to be in meditation. For Averren, he did make a very silent prayer to Talos that they would be able to finish this business without any trouble. Once they had finished, Kharag began to engage the Legionnaire in some idle discussion, trying to get more information about what this particular group of communicants was trying to accomplish. With their keeper now suitably distracted, Averren moved to one corner of the altar, examining a small orante box that sat there. The lid was locked and failed to lift when Averren touched it.

Averren had not thought to bring any lockpicks. And just taking the box was hardly a good move. Glancing up at Kharag, Averren made a gesture to indicate he needed to keep the guard busy. Kharag blinked twice in agreement and smoothly shifted gears in conversation, telling the joke about the Khajiit, the Argonian, and the daedroth. Booming laughter filled the small shrine chamber as Averren tapped the lock on the box, the faint click of its release lost in the cacaphony. He slipped his hand into the box and withdrew a piece of parchment. Averren quickly scanned the paper. It was damning evidence. The Emperor's itinerary, the lodgings he'd be housed in at Ebonheart, and the men who would be prepared to betray him. There was a final notation at the bottom that the note needed to be destroyed. Averren committed it all to memory quickly.

"What are you doing!" snarled the Legionnaire. Averren looked up. Somehow, the Legionnaire had noticed Averren with the parchment in hand. Before Averren could reply, the Legionnaire had whipped out his sword and took a step towards Averren. The traitor's advance was arrested as Kharag wrapped his arms around the man's neck and broke it with lethal efficiency.

A loud banging sound came from overhead. The trapdoor! Oritius Maro must have opened the door and seen Kharag killing the other Legionnaire. Without a word, Averren launched himself up the ladder, bursting through the trapdoor, the door to the storeroom ajar, Maro's shoulder just disappearing through it. Already, he could hear the beginnings of a commotion. Without thinking further, Averren closed the door and barred it. Kharag came up the ladder, looking at Averren.

"Maro?"

Averren shook his head. "He got out. Probably rounding up his conspirators to try and kill us."

"Why not raise a general alarm? The entire garrison would be on us that way."

"Yes, but if he gets the conspirators to help him kill us, they become 'heroes' and gain a better position to assassinate the Emperor."

"So they do plan to assassinate him."

Waving the parchment, Averren smiled humorlessly. "I have the evidence right here. For all the good it will do us." He sighed and slid down to sit on the floor. Both of them heard the unmistakable sound of an axe hitting the door. "How long do you think it will take them to break down the door?"

Kharag examined the door carefully for a moment. "Five or six minutes, perhaps. They're quite motivated from the sound of things."

Averren looked up at Kharag. "You know it's unlikely we'll survive this."

"Probably not. Even if Maro sent the Legionnaires who were not part of the plot out for reinforcements, we probably have more men on the other side of that door than we can easily fight."

A look crossed Averren's face. "I don't want to die like this. If I'm going to go, there should be no secrets between us."

Kharag studied his friend. Averren had a secret? Must've been a very large one if he hadn't breathed so much as a word of it to Kharag. Yet he understood Averren's wish. Since they were as good as dead, they could carry each other's secrets to the grave. It seemed proper to him somehow.

"You wish to know the big secret of my life, safe in the knowledge that we're already dead men?" Kharag smiled with grim humor.

"Yours for mine, Kharag," replied Averren with a similar smile.

"Fair enough." Kharag paused, gathering himself for what would normally be a hideous breach of protocol. "I am not a Legionnaire by trade, just with the reserves. I am actually an assassin with the Morag Tong. My current mission involves the recovery of various artifacts from members of the Dark Brotherhood, our mortal enemies. I've recovered several since we've been here in Gnisis."

Averren took a moment to digest this information. What little he knew of the Morag Tong suggested that they were more or less on the side of law and order, insofar as an order of assassins can be when given Imperial sanction to continue operating as they had for generations. Nodding, Averren took his own moment to center himself. "I'm not exactly a Legionnaire by trade either. I joined up as part of a cover. I am a very junior member of the Blades, sent here to investigate the very traitors that are on the other side of this door and come back with proof that they were engaged in a plot to assassinate the Emperor."

Kharag looked thunderstruck for a moment, then chuckled in surprise. "Well, my friend, I'd say you found your evidence and your traitors quite handily."

"That I did. Don't suppose there's any booze around here. I'd hate to die without a final drink to keep me warm."

Rummaging through the boxes in the storeroom, Kharag began pulling out various bottles and jugs. "Hmm, we have some shein that's about two years old, a bottle of sujamma. . . " Kharag paused to pull the stopper and sniff, grimacing noticably, "which has probably turned to acid. A few bottles of flin, a bottle of Cyrodiilic brandy, some mazte that's older than I am--"

"Waitaminute! Did you say flin? Real flin?"

Kharag proferred one of the short bottles to Averren. Looking over the bottle, Averren felt his heart racing and a smile bursting out on his face. "We may not be dead yet. How many bottles of this stuff are there!"

"Four," Kharag replied with a disconcerted look on his face. Averren began to bounce on the balls on his feet, his face becoming manic.

"This was bottled in 439, Third Era. Really well aged stuff! Gimme another bottle, then take the other two for yourself!"

"And what are we going to do with them?"

"Save ourselves. This is flin, the real stuff, not the cheap watered down swill you find in the tradehouses. The recipe and distilling process for flin are Imperial secrets, and distillers are sworn to secrecy on pain of death never to reveal those recipes or processes. Legionnaires out on campaign always carry a small flask, issued by the quartermaster right before they head out on patrol or just before battle. A swig of this stuff will keep a man going for a good while."

"And get him tipsy, no doubt," Kharag muttered.

"No, it won't! Real flin doesn't get you drunk! It fortifies the body in strength and stamina. And these two bottles are going to save our skins." Averren popped the cork out of one bottle and took a deep swig, shuddering as the whiskey suffused his body. "Oooooooohhhhhhhhh, yeah! That's the real stuff all right. Drink, Kharag! Drink both bottles down, and quickly!" He lifted the bottle to his lips and drank deeply, draining it in slow gulps. Kharag followed suit and felt the liquor flooding his belly, a fire growing in his gut as the flin spread out and began to take effect. He did feel stronger, more powerful than he'd ever felt before. Both of them finished their second bottles, a faint heat radiating off their bodies as their newly fortified muscles flexed and swelled with life.

"You ready for this?" Averren asked with a vicious smile.

"I'm ready. And for what it's worth, I hope you're wrong about this stuff, because I was quite ready to die today." Kharag returned the grin, friendly yet bloodthirsty all the same.

Averren planted a foot hard on the floor and delivered a brutal kick to the door. The crossbar splintered and fell away from the tremendous energy, the door itself seeming to explode outward right into the faces of the traitorous Legionnaires headed by Oritius Maro. Averren and Kharag rushed out, swords at the ready, bellowing war cries and looking for all the world like the very agents of fury and vengeance. Legionnaires shrieked as the flin-fueled muscles of the two warriors split the chain links of their enemies' armor like thread, flesh and bone not cut so much as torn through. When a sword grew too dull to serve, Averren or Kharag simply tore one of a fallen man's hands and continued the assault. Within ten minutes, the building had been emptied, the broken bodies of the traitors scattered like hastily discarded clothing. Dropping their swords on the floor, Averren and Kharag stepped outside.

The entire garrison stood before them, swords and spears drawn, pointed directly at them, Darius right in front in full armor and looking ready to exact justice.

"What have you done?" he demanded, his voice full of fury.

Averren withdrew the note he had recovered from the shrine. "Served the Emperor, General"

It had been three days since the massacre in the secondary armory. Even now, both Averren and Kharag were stiff and sore. Flin granted tremendous strength for a short time, but the amount the two had drunk in one shot had taxed their bodies well beyond their normal limits, leaving both of them effectively paralyzed within a few hours, unable to move for a day and a half. Now, the pair stood in front of Darius once more, rigidly at attention in a way that would probably not be duplicated ever again.

"Gentlemen, I must commend you for diligence the last few weeks, and in the . . .efficiency with which you dispatched the Talos conspirators. The repairs to the door will not be taken out of your pay. You have served the Empire well, and you have saved the life of the Emperor. For this, you deserve more than I can reasonably give you."

"Thank you, Sir," the duo replied.

"However, I do intend to reward you. After considerable contemplation, I have decided to promote you both to the rank of Champion of The Legion. I would have gladly made you Knights Errant, but that would have been highly irregular. Some may question even this rank, but to my thinking, you've more than earned it. It is not every day that one Legionnaire, let alone two, have such a profound effect on the survival of the Empire."

"Thank you, Sir," the duo replied again.

"You will, of course, receive all the benefits commensurate with such a rank, and you will have all of the responsibilities of that rank. Do not disappoint me, gentlemen."

"No, Sir!"

"For now, however, I have also decided to place you on the inactive reserves for the next few months. You have more than earned the rest, and it would probably do you both a world of good to keep out of sight for a while, lest anybody get any ideas about picking a fight with the heroes of Gnisis.

"Dismissed, gentlemen."

Averren and Kharag turned and left Darius' office and stepped out into the midday sunshine. The two looked at each other uncomfortably, vaguely uncertain of what to say.

"Kharag," began Averren slowly, "what are we going to do?

"I can tell you one thing I'm not going to do. I'm not going to mention the existence of a Blade that's infiltrated the Legion. Your secret is safe with me, Averren."

"And yours is safe with me, Kharag," Averren nodded. "But . . .what happens if by some chance we find ourselves in opposition? I have no idea when our paths might cross again, and in what capacity."

"We'll deal with that certainty when it comes, Averren. Until then, we do as we have been doing since the day we met."

The two friends stood looking out over the river that ran along the southern edge of Gnisis for a long time, enjoying each other's company without saying a word until Kharag left to catch the silt strider to Ald'Ruhn. Once the silt strider was out of sight, Averren turned and walked to the Temple. For some reason, making the short trip to the Ruddy Man shrine had taken on a new significance, and Averren wished to be prepared for the challenge.


End file.
